


darling, you should see me in a crown

by rikacain



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Avengers - All Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, I am sorry for this 3 am fic that expanded into this monstrosity, Literal Role Reversal, M/M, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-08
Updated: 2016-03-09
Packaged: 2017-11-13 19:56:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/507152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rikacain/pseuds/rikacain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It could be said that when aspiring superheroes-to-be are dropping like flies right and left, Loki picked a really horrible time to be captured. </p><p>Or</p><p>How the God of Mischief, regardless of his actions, may never quite escape the expectations that come with his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a role reversal AU that really takes the shit out of me. The general idea of the universe is that all the villains are now heroes, and all heroes are villains. 
> 
> I apologise beforehand for any sort of out of character moments because I really know nothing, and I mean /nothing/ about Marvel canon. The team resembling the Avengers here are the Cabal, best known for its formation before the Siege events. The Cabal consisted of Doom, Osborn, Loki, Frost, Namor and the Hood; I know absolutely nothing about the Hood so he is replaced by Amora and Skurge. 
> 
> I also would like to warn for a slightly 'choppy' feel to this fic. I'm trying out a new style, you see, and am hoping for its success. 
> 
> To clarify any doubts: eventual Tony/Loki.

The first thing that goes wrong: his sei∂r just fizzles out. 

Loki looks down at his hand. It's numb and there's no steady flow of sei∂r pooling beneath his fingernails, fingertips, he can use both to deliver a good green fiery whack to the face. Now magic is not supposed to do that, so he radios in. 

"Victor," he says. "Victor, do you copy?"

The second thing is the static that crackles against his ear, but it's nothing new because Hammer's designs tend to fail them most of the time. Loki scowls and rips the thing away from his ear, incinerates it for good measure.

 

The third thing is the last he remembers; a sharp jab to the back of his neck, and strike three, he's out.

* * *

The room he wakes up in is well-lit and extravagantly furnished, compared to the half-expectations he harbours of the dank and dark dungeons reminiscent of the chambers beneath the halls of Asgard. The wall is bare, save for shelves of relics of some sort on brilliant display; there is a bar sprawled across the other side of the room, stocked full of drinks. This is a room that is meant to illustrate the owner's wealth, and it performs its function well.

Then he realises that he is on his feet and no one sleeps on their feet (unless there is something holding you up). Loki moves, stretches, only to find himself suspended in some sort of anti-gravity cage. The feeling is not unlike flying, but he finds himself uncomfortable and wary of the fact that if he moves too much, he might end up on his head like test subjects of the earlier prototypes made by Hammer; they all looked green afterwards and threw up on the man. (He would have felt sorry for him if he wasn't laughing so hard.)

He turns his attention onto the relics on the shelves, and they perplex him to some extent - a crude iron mask, scorched black and dull; a pair of whips connected to an unseen power source, humming low with the occasional crackle of electricity; a pair of hands, decorated by a heavy ring on each finger...

They are more than relics. They're trophies, Loki thinks, stomach dropping low, trophies made of his allies long gone. There are more shelves, more trophies, of Vanko and Mandarin and Stane and many many more, trophies to decorate victories. He knows whose victories they belong to, whose quarters he has been brought to. 

"Interesting, isn't it? They make for great conversation pieces."

He whips his head around, winces because that is a loud and painful crack, and wonders if he has managed to offend the Norns in some way in the previous cycle. 

Anthony Edward Stark, in the flesh.

The mortal strides into the room, all posh suit and slick goatee, tapping away on a StarkPhone (although Loki has to admit that the model was much sleeker than OscorPhones). This is the man at the very top of the criminal empire, pulling all the strings and suits - the only reason he can still strut around without the law laying a single finger on him is that try as she may, Frost still can't dig up the dirt on him. (And in some way, Loki begrudgingly admires him for that.)

"Stark," he says, inclines his head slightly and flashes a sharp smile. This is Loki's first time confronting Stark without their respective allies; everyone hates one-to-ones, three is always an advantage. "I would love to have a conversation with you, but I'd rather have one sitting down." He flexes the tips of his fingers, calling sei∂r to his hands. "Surely you can let me sit before we take this any further?"

"Nice try, Rudolph," Stark grins, tucks his phone away and moves to the bar, rifling through its contents. "You're hoping I let you out of that cage? Maybe for Christmas, hm?"

"I'm sure Christmas can come early for me."

Stark throws his head back and laughs, and proceeds to take a gulp from an unlabeled bottle. "Drink?" he offers, and Loki shakes his head, keeping a wary eye on the mortal. "Shame. Thor said you could hold your liquor."

"There are many things my brother can say," Loki says carefully. Thor, he thinks with a pang of concealed regret. His brother, through bond if not through blood, who upon his exile had met several unsavoury characters and now conducts war at their behest. Thor, who brings the wrath of the Thunderer upon Midgard, and Loki, who is sworn to defend it from this brother he had a hand in creating. Loki may have walked in the golden son's shadow for long and longer, but he does not wish for a Thor led astray. 

(Loki rues the day Thor had met Jane Foster, that scientist with a sweet smile and blood-stained hands. He imagines tearing her apart, limb by limb, savouring her screams and pleads for mercy and _oh yes what a day that will be_. If only Midgard is not attached to honour, morals and sentiment.)

"Yeah, and half of the time it's about you," Stark strides over to Loki, tone still amiable, hand gripping the bottle firm. "The big guy still dotes on you, even if you're too stubborn to come over to his side. It's always Loki would come up with this plan, Loki pulled this prank... Which makes me think, why are you playing for the good side?"

"I'm not sure that I understand your question." And the thousandth customer goes to Mr. Stark, step right up and receive your prize. Mortals never seem to tire of that question. 

"You do." Stark says immediately. "You should have heard the myths we have about you down here in - what do you call it again? Midgard?" He leans forward, curious. "Loki, the God of Lies, the God of Mischief. Doesn't really sound like hero material to me."

"I don't live for your expectations, Mr. Stark," Loki replies. "Whatever it is that you are proposing, I'm not interested."

"But I'm not proposing," Stark says, and the ends of his lips suddenly stretch back to a feral grin that screams WARNING WARNING like Hammer's prototype of _anything_. "Did I tell you that Point Break still dotes on you? Well, lately he's getting out of hand, so you're my bargaining chip. You're free to feel honoured."

It seems that Loki is to clear up every single drop of Thor's mess, he thinks tiredly. It's what he has been doing for the past millennia. 

"You cannot keep me here," he tells Stark. 

"I can," Stark says, all arrogance. "Try using that mojo you've been charging, Pichu. Do your worst."

"If you insist," he says, and brings his hands forward. The sei∂r rushes up in a great torrent, twisting within his veins... And fizzles away at his fingertips. Loki's eyes widen. 

"You're now the first testing subject of GRAVY-prototype-03," says Stark in a tone similar to a commercial announcer. "Refunds are not allowed, sorry. Well, do you like it? It's definitely better than that half-assed designs Hammer can fart out, and that's saying nothing."

Loki snarls and lunges forward, hoping to at least scratch Stark's eyes out for all the comfort it may give him later. Stark merely steps back, smirks and says, "JARVIS, misbehave."

"As you wish, sir," and  Loki is airborne one moment and slammed to the floor of the cage the next with the force of a hundred Mjölnirs weighing upon his body. He is unable to breathe, unable to see, unable to move and his ears are threatening to burst - 

And he is suddenly lifted into the air again, buoyant and weightless; there may be blood dripping out of his nose. His sei∂r manifests around that area, and fixes the ruptured blood vessel it finds there. 

_Interesting_ , Loki notes half-dazedly. Drops of blood float past his face.

"Interesting," Stark comments, and Loki raises his head to glare at the mortal.

"I will escape," he threatens darkly, quietly furious, "and I will kill you, if I must. You do not trap a god in this excuse of a cage."

"I think I am, doing, you know. The trapping." The feral grin is back on his face, and his eyes widens to match it. "I think I win that bet with Barton - you remember Barton? Hawkeye? He's still pretty pissed over you taking Coulson down, but Coulson should have waited anyway." Stark offers the mouth of the bottle to him one more time; Loki spits at his feet. "Next time you want to consider assaulting me, I'll put Barton in there with you. We'll find out then who can last longer, shall we?"

"Better him than you," Loki growls, and the grin grows even wider. 

"You're right about that, buddy," Stark says, ever casual. "I think I like you already - you're going to be so much fun to mess with. And aren't you a sight for sore eyes - Steve keeps on thinking that the hands are about to rot even when I explained that they've been preserved. I take good care of my stuff." He shoots Loki a wink, and Loki scowls back in a mixture of aggression and confusion. "I'll take good care of you."

"The Norns forbid."

"I think I'll do whatever the hell I want to. It comes with the money and charisma, you know?"

Loki lets Stark knows exactly what he knows when it concerns Stark and his apparent inability to keep his libido within his pants in perfectly vulgar terms, and Stark laughs again, "JARVIS, misbehave."

Head slams on cool metal again and that _hurts_ , and he allows himself to pass out.

* * *

"Do you need feeding?"

Ten days in captivity with Stark's occasional company is ten days of Stark asking him asinine questions. Loki sucks in an irritated breath and counts the burns on the wall. He wonders how they got there. 

"Hey, I'm serious. I killed my pet goldfish when I was... Ah, hell, was it even mine?" Stark shrugs and takes another gulp of scotch. "Anyway, I think I killed it because I forgot to give it food. Or I overfed it. Same difference, it died in the end."

Loki begins to count the number of lights on the ceiling. 

"Hey. Hey. Rock of Ages." Loki's eyes slide briefly over to regard Stark disinterestedly. "Last chance. Food. The next time I offer might be a long time."

"I do not require sustenance," Loki says shortly. He returns to counting. 

Stark stares at him, before shaking his head lightly. "You're on a diet, aren't you already a stick," he decides. "Have you seen your brother eat? He finished a whole cow by himself, and still had space for mousse after that." Stark wrinkles his nose. "A lot of mousse."

"Thor has always been a hearty eater."

"I wouldn't want him in a zombie apocalypse. He'll eat through all of my supplies."

They lapse back into silence. For a minute.

"How about water, do you need water-"

"Do you have a pressing need to fill the room with your incessant words for every moment?" Loki grits out. "Have you nothing better to do? No schemes to craft, no diabolical plans to execute?"

"Planning is Steve's job," Stark chimes. "I provide the cash."

"How charming," Loki sneers. "So you are nothing more than a human credit card - "

"I use a Stark card, big difference there - "

" -and you expect your empire to stand when it is built on such a flimsy commodity?"

"Newsflash, Rip van Winkle," Stark says, condescending, "this is America, not Commie Central."

"You mortals are preposterous."

"Thank you, your holy-ass," Stark flashes a smile. "Just don't forget who's holding all the cards."

_Then don't talk to your captive_ , he wants to say, does not say, years under Odin and Thor has taught him silence. He settles for a glare instead, and manoeuvres into a position that has his back facing Stark. The smug smirk is on his face, he doesn't need eyes to see. 

"Nice ass. Just saying."

Close your eyes and breathe out.

* * *

First ball drops now when Stark stumbles in already drunk. 

"Jarvis, revoke Steve's access to this room, I'm getting wasted _now_ ," and staggers for the bar, resurfacing only with a bottle in hand. Loki watches, keeps his silence, ignores the banging and yelling on the other side of the door; to which Stark yells, "my Tower, my rules" and mutters, "mute him, Jarvis, there's a good boy."

Silence falls, save for ice against glass. Stark cradles his bottle and Loki watches still. 

All part of routine. 

"Jarvis," Stark suddenly says. "Open Pepper up."

"Sir, I would like to remind you -"

"Save it, Jarvis," Stark snaps. Loki is intrigued by this mild irritation, Stark's brand of arrogance has long grown tiresome. "Pepper, _now_."

"Very well, sir."

His skin prickles. Something interesting about to happen, and Odin forbids (literally, even) he misses it.

And something does - the room explodes blue lines and vividly brilliant colours, pictures of a woman with sleek auburn hair pinned up into a neat bun. Snapshots of her laughing, of her poring extensively over stacks of paper, of her eyes downcast in pensive thought. Elsewhere, voices play and converse - clips, Loki sees, videos of her and other mortals and a much younger Anthony Stark.

He's intruding on something private, intimate, but Loki leans forward and scrutinises a picture that floats past his face. 

_Sentiment_ , he thinks viciously, plots and plans. 

* * *

Stark trails his hand through the air, slow and lazy. Pictures scatter and spin away to the corners of the room, and he sees _her_ , doesn't _see_ her, lost down memory lane. Her voice fades, overlaps, mixes with his and he lingers long. 

Finally, softly, he says, "close her up."

Blue and auburn and colours fade to glittering blue pinpricks of light, before darkness fully sets in. Stark sits still, bottles to the side and forgotten, brooding eyes dark. 

"Mr. Stark."

Stark freezes. "Mr Stark," again, more insistently, "please, help me."

"Jarvis, lights," says Stark hoarsely and the lights flickers on white. Stark yelps and throws his arms up in front of his face - "Bright, goddammit Jarvis, _too bright_ -" and it dims. 

No one is there. 

Stark breathes out. "Imagination, Jarvis, too many bedtimes stories for me."

"If you say so, sir."

"I do say so." Stark gets up, gets a bottle again. "Solution is to get drunk. Drunker. Coherence in sentences means not drunken."

"Exemplary theory, sir."

"Already a thesis." Stark turns around and Loki thinks _ah, checkmate_.

Stark doesn't see him, sees _her_ , the woman from the little technology show that Hammer would kill to emulate even half of the display. 

"Pepper," Stark breathes out. Loki smiles hidden under his glamour.

"Mr. Stark," she/he says, their voices similar, don't you just love magic. He imagines Victor frowning at him in almost-fond exasperation, at the people he pretends to be. "Wh-What am I doing here? Why am I in, in a - oh my goodness," and Pepper/Loki takes a sharp breath in, _Stark better be drunk enough to buy this_ , "is this a cage?"

Eyes wide, quicker breaths, make yourself look helpless.

Her name again and Stark steps closer, eyes on her, eyes dark with grief, regret and longing. Loki shivers, holds it close; those eyes unnerve him, windows to the soul. Stark wants, and wants badly. 

(Maybe Stark cannot have.)

"Pep," a step closer, another, "Pep, I'm so sorry," sold to the highest bidder, Loki has, "Pepper, oh gods, Pepper."

(Stark will never have.)

Second ball drops now when Loki says, "oh, _Anthony_."

* * *

"You're not Pepper," Stark says softly.

* * *

Game's over, children, it's time to go home.

"No." The glamour dissolves, water slipping through fingers. "No, I'm not."

Keep your face blank, Odin has caught him doing much, much worse. (But Stark's a villain.)

"Jarvis," Stark says, face carefully blank - but Loki sees, those eyes, sees restrained fury. He keeps his face blank too. "Daddy's closing both eyes."

"Free reign then, sir."

Third ball drops now as Loki is slammed yet again down onto the ground. 

(Stark watches and Loki wonders.)

* * *

"So," Stark begins casually. "Shape-shifting."

Loki hums affirmatively under his breath. It has been a full week since their last... encounter; a week of silence with only his own thoughts for company, a week fully appreciated. Now if only Victor would hurry up and get him out of here. 

(He most decidedly does not think about eyes dark with want, pure want; nor does he think of calloused hands, strong and steady. He chalks it up to boredom and leaves these thoughts - _fantasies_ \- alone.)

"I enjoyed the silence," he tells Stark instead. 

"And here I was thinking you liked the sound of my voice," Stark says in return, the side of his mouth twitching up into a half-smile. Loki does not miss the hard glint in his captor's eyes - tread carefully, tread carefully, you're on thin ice. 

"Or perhaps you like the sound of mine," and Loki slips his voice higher an octave or a half, an adequate mimicry of Pepper's own. Stark stiffens and smooths his face blank; Loki smiles, ice and snow. "What happens when she finds out?"

"Nothing will happen," Stark answers brusquely. 

"She does not even know?" Loki mocks. "Such a touching display of trust. What happens when she finds out that Anthony Stark is nothing more than a villain, a mass-murderer wearing the guise of a successful businessman - "

"Nothing will happen - "

"When she finds out," he raises his voice higher, louder, glee stretching his face into a Cheshire smile, he's in his element, pushing at cracks and fissures to widen and _wider and wider_ , "how disappointed, how repulsed will she be?"

"Jarvis," Stark snarls out. "Full reign, now."

"As you wish, sir."

Loki is ready.

The moment Stark gives his hidden henchman the command, Loki spreads his limbs out, allowing the increase in pressure to push him down, down against the cold metal. The metal is harsh, unforgiving chill against the skin of his cheek - so Loki pulls. 

The midnight blue chases down his arm, ink spilling in water, and he wills his skin, his body to grow cold and colder. Frost forms in the lashes of his eyes, his ears are popping, someone is shouting, he's close to losing consciousness - 

Something cracks, and the metal beneath him gives. 

The world turns itself over and over and it ends with Loki on the floor, out of the cage, and Stark towering above him. He struggles to get up but his limbs steadfastedly refuses to obey. The lack of gravity and constant movement has robbed him of the ability to use his muscles normally, he realises. 

Well, fuck. 

Stark grabs his chin and drags Loki's face up instead, gangly limbs and all, chasing away the Jotunn blue. "Pepper is dead," he hisses, "and you hold her murderer as a fallen hero, a beloved comrade. Tell me, Odinson," and at this he grips tighter, Loki can't fight back just yet, "or should I call you Laufeyson?"

"What," Loki manages to rasp out. 

"Laufeyson," Stark repeats, smug coloring his tone, "you're not really a son of Odin, are you? Hell, even I can see Thor as the king of Asses - "

"Asgard," the voice of Jarvis cuts in. 

"But you? You don't even look the part," Stark sneers. 

"I am a son of Odin," Loki insists, pushing his hand up to grasp weakly at Stark's hand, how does he know, "by bond if not by blood." 

"Who told you that?" The mortal laughs, high and cold. "Daddy dearest?"

Yes. Loki feels so, so tired. "It matters not if I am adopted," who is it that he saying (lying) to now, "it still doesn't change- "

"Foolish little god," Stark croons, his other hand smoothing Loki's hair back as if it is a lover's caress. "Tell me, what do you know of Earth's mightiest heroes?"

"You're the expert," Loki retorts drily. 

"Good try, but no." Stark grins wide and vicious. "How about this - that they have their own hidden agendas, their motives? The moment they can trade for something that they want, they'll give you up in the blink of an eye?" Stark leans down, his breath a warm puff of air against the shell of Loki's ear. "Who do you think told me about you, Jotunn prince?"

His blood runs cold, his fingertips blue. "You lie," he manages to say. 

"God of lies," Stark repeats. "You tell me."

Stark lets him go and steps back, turns around. "Run back to your heroes, Bambi," he calls back over his shoulder. "Tell me then that they don't lie."

Loki stares after him, gathers his sei∂r up like a cloak and vanishes on the spot. 

(Far, far away now, Stark begins to laugh.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three is done, and thus Chapter Two goes up! Have the dysfunctional dynamics of the Cabal in high resolution. 
> 
> I'm now working on Chapter Four, but might actually have to split chapter three into half - because that thing is twice the length of chapter one. Damn. 
> 
> Please, enjoy, and once more I apologise for any wrong characterisation and canon discrepancies. This is strictly an AU, a AU that makes me want to shoot myself in the foot then in the head. I have not read the Marvel comics, and must emphasise that if there is anything GLARINGLY OBVIOUSLY WRONG, do not hesitate to leave a comment and tell me off.
> 
> Edit: SCREW FORMATTING
> 
> Edit2: Many thanks to Warbird, who has informed me of said mistakes. I may be unable to fully rectify it and give the characters their full due, however, and must once again apologise beforehand.

"Doom thinks that Stark should be taken down once and for all," Victor says stubbornly.

Loki watches Osborn pinch the bridge of his nose. "And what do you think I have been doing these past few years?" Osborn inquires icily. "Developing kitchen appliances and children's toys?"

"Your water filtration system is of no use," Namor puts in unhelpfully. "The waters of Atlantis were cleaner before you installed the vile contraption."

"Hammer," Frost tells Namor. 

"I see."

"Give the poor man a chance," Osborn snaps. 

"Many chances," Amora says flippantly. 

"Don't make me develop an anti-magic field, Enchantress."

"Watch your words, Norman Osborn," Skurge rumbles.

"Gentlemen," Loki says sharply. "And ladies," after Amora and Skurge glares at him. "Let us focus on the issue at hand. I haven't the energy to stand around all day long." His sei∂r shifts under his skin, supporting the muscles he had yet to fully use after the incident, and the energy used to maintain the spell is draining. Not for the first time, Loki curses Stark yet again.

Victor, Amora and Skurge have the decency to look like they have been found stealing the cookies from Namor's cookie jar. Osborn looks like Odin when he found out Loki stole from his metaphorical cookie jar. Frost looks as if she had actually stolen the cookies but got off scot-free. 

"Doom believes the issue is of Stark and his imminent removal," Victor repeats resolutely. 

"Come up with a plan then, genius," Osborn sneers. 

"I am," the man replies, "a genius."

"A splendid way to compliment yourself, Doctor," Skurge mutters. 

"Thank you, friend."

"How did you manage to escape?" Namor asks.

"How else, he pissed Stark off," Frost says with all certainty. 

Loki gives her a pointed look, "I'd appreciate if you stayed out of my head," and she smiles sweet and low. 

"I didn't look," she says, and at that Loki grins back at her, _oh really now?_

"You definitely took your time, Silvertongue," Amora taunts. "Have you also fallen for Stark's charms during your stay?"

"Had it been you who was compromised, Enchantress," Loki replies, "you would have taken even longer."

"So sure of your abilities?" Amora sneers. 

"Sure of yours," Loki smiles sharply. "Stark has already produced a working prototype of that anti-magic field Osborn favours to threaten you with."

The room fills with silence that is almost tangible. Osborn's face is eerily similar to the time Loki poured orange juice into his cereal, instead of milk. Skurge steps in front of Amora, as if to protect her from any remaining strands of anti-magic threads dangling off Loki (non-existent, might he add) and Victor runs his fingers absently over his scar, contemplating. Namor turns to converse with Frost in low tones, who looks up briefly at Loki. 

 _Do the calculations_ , Loki thinks wryly. 

"That's half of the team compromised," she says softly. 

"The other half makes use of Loki and Amora's enchantments," Osborn says. 

"In other words," Namor states candidly, "we're screwed."

A moment's pause for who the hell taught the Atlantean prince Midgardian slang. (Frost looks a bit too smug.)

"We need a plan," Skurge finally declares. 

"No shit, Sherlock," Osborn mutters. Amora shoots him a glare and lays a soothing hand on Skurge's forearm, wrist, hand; Loki doesn't know, they all look the same to him and he doubts even Frost would be able to differentiate. Frost snickers at his line of thought, _he knew she was looking_ , and everyone starts staring accusingly at everyone in case Frost is laughing at them, because of them. 

"Victor, you're the only person who is familiar with both sei∂r and technology," Loki finally says. "Can you produce a counter-measure?"

"Doom may try," Victor promises.

"Aren't you forgetting someone?" Osborn demands. "Someone who has the resources?"

"The last I checked, Hammer has little aptitude for technology," Loki retorts. "What hope has he for the delicate working of seidr?"

Osborn makes to open his mouth but Frost cuts him off first. "Gentlemen, we only need the results. Work together."

"Doom dislikes working together," Victor says. "Especially with Osborn and his lackey Hammer." Loki shoots both Osborn and Frost a self-satisfied grin. 

"Then consolidate your findings after you work alone then, Doom," Frost says. "I have no care for your methods, we only need the results."

"Does this mean that this meeting is over?" Amora pipes up.

"It better be," Skurge and Namor grumbles in unison.

"Meeting adjourned then," Loki says, his concentration is waning, this is supposed to be Midgard's most resilient team of heroes. The rest are wiped out within one day by one - no discrimination here - of the Avengers. Osborn glares at him but nods his assent. 

( _What do you avenge?_ Loki had once asked. Stark smiles and keeps his answers.) Frost narrows her eyes and Loki pretends not to notice. 

Victor dismantles himself into pieces - no surprises there, it was a Doombot all along - much to Osborn's distaste. Loki snaps his fingers and whisks the parts back to Doom's lab as per agreement. Frost smiles serenely at Osborn, sweeping out of the room with Namor at her heels; Amora blows him a kiss and teleports Skurge and herself back to their chambers. Osborn settles for initiating a glaring match against Loki.

Loki gives him a jaunty wave and teleports himself away. 

* * *

There are only a few people who know of Loki's situation, and Loki hunts them down accordingly. 

He finds Victor in the lab provided less-than-graciously by Osborn, the man really needs to learn a few lessons in caring and sharing. Victor has a mask on over his face, holding a Midgardian tool to a piece of metal of some sort and Loki chooses not to interrupt because he doesn't want sparks in his face today, thank you very much. He waits politely for Doom to notice his presence. 

"Loki," Victor says a full hour later. "I was not aware of your presence."

"Well now you are," Loki quips easily. "How is it going?"

"I am attempting to produce the anti-magic field," Victor explains. "Then I will find the mechanism that produces the field and counter that."

Loki nods in agreement with the plan. "Listen, Victor," he begins almost hesitantly. 

"I am listening."

"I need to ask you about something," Loki says, an amused smile crinkling his face. Victor is his very first Midgardian friend and the only one he trusts with twice the information he can trust others with. He now works as a hero and an ambassador of Latveria, much to the kingdom's content. "Do you remember what I told you about my past?"

Victor merely nods and does not repeat Loki's history for the whole of Midgard to hear, and for that Loki is grateful. "I can remember, if not all."

"I do trust you, Victor," Loki tells him. "But I'm afraid I must ask. Have you told anyone of it?"

Victor lowers his mask and looks at Loki straight in the eyes. "I have never," he swears in his native tongue. "And will never do so." Slowly, almost hesitantly, he reaches out and lightly grips Loki's shoulder. Loki closes his eyes and almost believes that it is Thor's heavy hand upon his shoulder and not his friend's metal encased limb. 

"Loki," Victor says and his eyes snap open. "My friend. Has something happened while you were in captivity?"

For a brief moment, he contemplates telling Victor - but no, no need to stir things up. Victor has a tendency to engage in unnecessary theatrics. 

"Nothing of importance," he finally says. Victor eyes him doubtfully but does not press. 

* * *

The next person is Frost, only because he knows her tactics well - information for information, false or true both works the same. And she can see, pick up and turn over the stones in his head, with her telepathy. Arse. 

"Frost," he greets as he strides into the room. He looks around for the Sub-Mariner. "Where is Namor?"

"With the Icelandic diplomats," she answers, eyes still skimming over her latest choice of a novel. "They want to negotiate an agreement over the fish population. They're not getting anywhere."

"I see." Loki takes a seat on the couch and Frost puts down her book. "You know what I want."

"Not yet," she smirks, but soon there is the familiar tingling of someone rifling through his thoughts. He dislikes the feeling but has learnt to tolerate and even control its depth over time. Frost hums low under her breath, before finally sitting back. 

"Your answer," Loki prompts. 

"I did not," Frost tells him. "I'm flattered by the degree of trust you have in me."

Loki smiles. "It is similar to the amount anyone else has in me. I can truly empathise."

"Lie-smith."

"Indeed." 

Loki gets up from his seat, intent on finding the next person - but Frost tugs on the strings on his mind. "Odinson," she says, a hint of a warning in her tone. 

He turns to look at her. Her stare is piercing. 

"Like what you see?" Loki jokes weakly.

She does not laugh. "Are you compromised?"

Dark eyes and rough stubble on chin, _foolish little god_ , Loki denies and does not think. 

Frost is still waiting. 

"No." He says aloud. "I'm not compromised."

Who is he convincing. 

* * *

The last of those who know are Amora and Skurge, and only because they are of Asgard. He materialises in Amora's chambers, to her immense irritation and his amusement at causing wrinkles in her otherwise perfect (seiōr-ridden) face. 

"Loki," Amora purrs out on the couch when she finally gets over her displeasure. Skurge hovers behind her, glaring slightly at Loki and he arches an eyebrow back. As if he'll be interested in Amora, the cow. 

Skurge growls and Loki wonders if the Executioner happens to have mind-reading skills. Foolish thoughts, but entertaining.

"Enchantress," he greets in return. "Your defences are as futile as ever."

Amora's eye twitches imperceptibly, but Loki relishes the implication behind the actions nonetheless. "What brings you to my chambers, Odinson?" She asks instead. "Perhaps you wish to partake in my charms?" and at that she lifts her eyebrows, coy, _not working_. The amount of seiõr rolling off her body is palpable. 

"Perhaps when you visit my daughter's realm," Loki says elusively. Amora catches the connotations and scowls at him. "I only ask for an answer."

"Or two," Skurge mutters.

"Or more," he agrees. 

She rolls onto her back, breathing out a sigh. "Ask away, young Prince," she lilts.  

Skurge would have sounded better using that tone, Loki does not say. 

"Have you alerted anyone of Midgard to Asgard's situation?" he asks, straight to the point. Amora turns her head slightly towards her lover. 

"Have we, darling?" she asks.

"No," Skurge affirms.

She lolls her head back to him. "We haven't," she says carelessly. "Is that all?"

"Yes," Loki says shortly and vanishes on the spot. Amora huffs at the presently vacant spot. 

"Rude," she says and motions for Skurge to come over. 

* * *

Loki is at a loss. 

Not Victor, not Frost, and not Amora and Skurge. The only other person who could have told Stark, directly or otherwise, is himself, but he's not that stupid. Really.

He is at a loss, so he finds out about Pepper Potts instead. 

It takes him several tries and several snorts of contempt from Osborn before he can get the tablet working (although in his defense, he has one word to say: _Hammer_ ); and even several more when he finds out that Pepper is a bloody nickname and not her real name. Midgardians and their peculiar customs - you don't see anyone calling Freyja a table condiment, nor the All-Father a spoon 

Virginia Potts was Anthony Stark's secretary, famous for being the order in Stark's otherwise chaotic life. He finds no mention of a working relationship nor of any commitment on Stark's side of any sort - but Stark is also mentioned a fair bit as a man who delights in the company of many women of the amorous sort. Stark and Amora may get on well, Loki thinks wryly. 

But something catches his eye, and he sees a familiar name. 

Stane. 

He hovers his finger over the word in blue letters that signifies a link to another webpage. Obadiah Stane was a hero Loki never had a chance to meet. Stane was someone he does not know. 

He presses, because how much can it hurt?

Obadiah Stane had ran Stark Industries along with Stark. He had donned a metal suit and called himself the Iron Monger. Loki recognises the mask, much cleaner yet much more unfriendly. Stane had died after a few appearances in that metal suit, and the suit sans helmet is now in Osborn's possession and usage. 

Stane was killed by Stark, Loki muses. He glances at the page once more before switching back to Pepper's page - and _wait_. 

Pepper died three years ago.

Stane died three years ago, a mere few days after. 

Loki leans back and considers the implication of the situation, what it could mean, what it will mean. There is a sinking feeling, a warning for him to stop thinking. 

( _you hold her murderer as a fallen hero, a beloved comrade_ , tone accusing, eyes flaring with rage, hurt)

Stark killed Stane. 

Stane killed Pepper.  

( _Tell me then that they don't lie_ , Stark hisses into his ear.)

They do, Loki realises. Everyone does.

* * *

Had things gone according to predetermined script written by whomever (Loki), whenever (now), however - Loki would have spent the next few weeks or even month avoiding the rest of the Cabal. 

As it is, the screen of the tablet Osborn lent him begins to fizzle and crackle with static. The web page he is on distorts into waves of black on white on grey, before finally snapping to a clear display of Anthony Stark, grinning up from his lap. Loki almost drops the tablet _because_.

"Hello there, darling," Stark says carelessly. "How nice of you to check up on me, I'd almost think that you cared." The man flashes a smile, all teeth, and Loki is still getting over the fact that Stark just hacked into Osborn's systems, something he oftens emphasises on ' _secure_ '. Where _is_ the man when you need him?

"Anyway, it's almost time for the big event of the day, and aren't you lucky? You get to have first class seats," the man continues, adjusting a microphone by his mouth.  "No extra guests allowed though, aren't you a special snowflake."

"What do you want, Stark," Loki grounds out. 

"It speaks!" Stark points at the screen dramatically. "Nothing much, little god. I just want an audience."

"Don't," Loki starts to snarl, but Stark is already turning away from the screen, stepping away to reveal Oscorp Towers. _Enjoy the show_ , his mouth reads and he drops a wink in Loki's direction, before finally striding up to the glass double doors of the building, and pushing through them. 

The screen flickers briefly before switching to the security feed of the lobby of Oscorp Towers, although in much clearer display. Loki should really call for Osborn, call for Victor, but mischief thrums through his body and he _knows_ that something is about to happen. People hurry through the lobby, exchanging notes and chatter over coffee, and Loki can almost make out Hammer at the receptionist counter. 

Stark walks into the lobby of Oscorp Towers, takes a single disparaging sweeping glance of his surroundings, before pulling out a gun and shooting a man on sight. 

As Hammer collapses on the floor and the lobby erupts into a cacophony of screams and pure chaos, Stark looks up at the camera and brings the microphone up to his mouth, speaking clearly into it. 

"Well then, ladies," grins Stark, bleeding chaos and confidence, "take me in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, many thanks to Kytt, scifi1694 and amaririsu for their sheer awesomeness and inspiration. 
> 
> Thank you too, for reading.


	3. Chapter 3

Stark is led to the basement of Oscorp Towers, where Osborn carries out his experiments in deep dark cellars and where there is a convenient holding cell, just for Stark. _Secure_ , Osborn says as he personally escorts and pushes Stark into the room, and locks the door with a vicious relish.

( _Secure_ , Loki remembers as Stark flickers onto the tablet in his lap, said tablet now returned to Osborn's supply. He tells no one of Stark's pre-show theatrics.)

They gather in the same room as before, only half a day after their previous meeting. Osborn mutters jerkily to himself under his breath, getting up to pace about and sitting down as abruptly as he had stood. Amora and Skurge loiters about the couch, the former drawing meandering lines down the skin of the latter's forearm using a manicured nail, and Loki almost curses for that nail to break on a whim. Anything to get out of this tense atmosphere. 

Namor and Victor stand to the side, conversing with each other and Loki is almost overtaken by an urge to eavesdrop. Could it be Victor who tells all about Loki's past, only to wear the mask of a caring friend in front of Loki? Playing the prince of Asgard for a fool, for a liar to be easily misled by another's lies - he could be telling Namor about Loki the Jotnar Prince, the monster taken in by the Æsir and raised in their ways.

Loki feels his chest constricting in fury, rising up and bursting out -

And then he quells it, pushes it back down, deeper and deeper. He cannot let his emotions get the best of him. Victor had already sworn to his face that he did no such thing, and Loki is not about to believe that his friend would betray that trust easily. Besides, telling Namor will not benefit Victor in any way foreseeable. 

Breathe in and breathe out, and stare at the surveillance feed where Stark fiddles with his tie and tie-pin. As if on cue, Stark looks up and smiles at the camera, the curl of his lips coloured smug. 

Loki snorts. Oldest trick in the book, that is. As if it was going to work. 

"He seems too smug for a prisoner," Skurge growls. 

... Loki stands corrected. 

Osborn slams his hands onto the table, almost feral, and all eyes turn to him. "Acute observation, Executioner," he snarls out and there is something much darker about his tone, more unhinged. Loki eyes Norman Osborn uncertainly - there is something off about the mortal. "Perhaps you take me for a fool - any half-wit can see that Stark is up to something!"

Victor looks briefly over to Loki, raising his eyebrow in a silent question that Loki answers with a shake of his head.

"Osborn," Loki says, and does not flinch as Osborn turns on him. "We need to decide what to do with him. You can't lock him away forever."

"Why not?" Amora calls out. "The best way to prevent Stark from doing anything is to contain and forget all about him. He'll probably go into shock from attention deficiency."

"I have not seen any records of humans dying from lack of attention," Namor points out puzzledly, and Amora throws him an unimpressed look, _like really_. (No one tells her that the only one likely to suffer from that condition is probably herself.)

Osborn sneers at Namor. "Of course you haven't," and that is the exact moment Frost walks into the room. Her eyes narrow, almost slits, before she joins the Namor-Victor party. 

"I got nothing of worth out of Stark," Frost finally tells them, albeit reluctantly. "The moment I walked in, he immediately thought, 'Great ass, I would so tap that,' before returning to mathematical formulae and theories." Loki holds back on the snigger that threatens to escape - a hard feat to do, considering Stark's said thoughts in Frost's accent. "I suspect that Charles may have taught him to deflect some mindprobing."

"Could you not have directed his thoughts?" Namor asks and Frost shakes her head, no. Osborn sneers at her and she regards him coolly yet again - Loki does not require telepathy to deduce that Osborn had either insulted her or her skills. He quickly stands up and claps his hand once, nice and loud, turning all attention hostile or otherwise on him. 

"No matter about his thoughts and plans," Loki says. "We have Stark within our custody. The matter at hand is what to do with him."

"Lock him up and forget about him," Amora repeats. Everyone ignores her and she sniffs disdainfully.

"Execution and putting his head on a pike may discourage other villains," Skurge adds on. Frost looks affronted at the very idea, along with Namor. Osborn looks at Skurge like he's his new best friend, would you look at that, Norman and Skurge, dynamic duo.

"Something diplomatic, friend," Loki says instead. "We cannot cause too much of an outrage."

"I believe that the situation can be turned to the Cabal's advantage," Victor puts forth. "Stark should be put on trial, to undergo American justice." The way he says 'American' is on this side of distaste, and Loki wonders what Victor will do if left to his own devices - maybe torture, that sounds good. 

Frost raises an eyebrow. "A fair trial?" she says, doubtful. "He will find a way out of it. He did not come here to get caught."

"What can he do?" Amora scoffs. "Call his villainous allies to come to his aid?"

"A trial," Osborn suddenly says, "full of superheroes." He gets up, continues talking. "Everyone has a grudge against this criminal empire Stark runs, one way or another. We make it public, so if his friends come along to rescue him; they'll be either scared off or enough of an idiot to get caught." Osborn grins, vicious and triumphant and sharp. "A lot of birds with one stone - Doom, you may be of use for once."

Victor raises his eyes to look at Osborn squarely in the face, which is quite a sight to see, considering that he's quite buff and Osborn more sullen and almost a stick. "Doom have always been useful," he says coldly and Loki thinks that in another life Victor could have been a ruler, a king, "if not more useful than you, Osborn."

Osborn bristles at the insult and makes his way towards Victor with obvious intent; Loki steps in between to intercept, blocking his way under the guise of talking to Frost. "Can you contact anyone from the mutant community?" he asks, keeping an eye on Victor.

She reads his purpose, but plays along. "Erik and Raven should be around the area," she says. "They can spread the message."

He nods at her as she leaves with Namor, then turns to Osborn. "Osborn, if we are to go through with this idea we need as many allies as possible," he tells him briskly. "A judge is required, if my knowledge of your judiciary system is correct. Have you any contacts?"

Osborn glares over Loki's shoulder at Victor, but answers when Loki clears his throat. "Judge Hart should be willing to aid us," he says. "And I keep contact with a lot of people."

"Good," he says. "Amora, since you spend more time looking at yourself in the mirror than actually protecting Midgard of your own volition, go to the courtroom and set wards up. We wouldn't want Strange to pop by. This is an order," he says sharply when she makes to protest.

Amora glares bloody murder at him, snarls, "we're not on Asgard," but digs her nails sharply into Skurge's forearm and drags him out of the room anyway. Loki watches her go with a small sense of satisfaction.

"I will ask Herr Schmidt if he wishes to join us," Victor tells him and walks out of the door, not before shooting a particularly vicious look at Osborn, who scowls back. They are the only two left in the room, and are left standing in silence. Uncomfortable silence. 

"Don't you have something to do?" Loki finally asks Osborn, arching an eyebrow.

"Don't tell me what to do," snaps Osborn in return, but he proceeds off to his office anyway. Loki watches him leave warily - Osborn had been much more irritable today. What could have happened?

( _Hammer_ , the name now said in resignation.)

Loki shakes his head and leaves the room. He has someone to meet.

* * *

"Took you long enough," Stark drawls as Loki pushes the door to his holding cell open. He sits on a chair facing away from the door, pose entirely too relaxed for someone captured. "Have you finished powdering your nose, Norman?" 

"I did," Loki replies pleasantly in Osborn's voice. "There's a spot on my brow that I missed though, would you like to wait for another hour?"

Stark snorts and turns around, a quip on the tip of his tongue; a quip unsaid as he finally realises who graces him with their presence. Loki grins, slow and sure. "Food? The next time I offer might be a long time," he quips. 

The man quirks an eyebrow at him, clearly realizing who had said that (read: himself). "Well, well," the man finally says, "if it isn't our friendly neighbourhood Norse God. Do you want a sacrifice, can I sacrifice Osborn?"

"You can try," Loki tells him, finally slipping back to his own voice, Osborn's is a pain to mimic, "but I wouldn't accept it."

"Bummer," Stark pouts for a second but they're both wary, testing out the waters, neither expected to be actually meet each other again. (Not within Loki's plans, off Stark's calculations, will you look at that.) "I didn't realise the requirements were 'young' and 'handsome'."

You certainly fit the criteria, Loki thinks - but Stark suddenly says 'oh?' cockily and he said that aloud, didn't he. 

Damn. 

"What do you want, Stark," he demands, snappy. Stark raises a bemused eyebrow. 

"I want to put on a show," the man says, "Broadway and West End and all that jazz. Have you seen Wicked? I can totally play Glinda, Galinda; Banner can take Elphaba because he's green and she's green - "

"Point, Stark," Loki interrupts because he understands none of Stark's pointless drivel. Stark grins, free and easy. 

"I already made it."

Loki looks at him and he looks back, grin firmly in place. He longs to wipe it off Stark's countenance, one way or another. He's not the one in the cage but Stark holds all the cards over his head - and he _hates_ that feeling. 

"Stane killed Pepper," he says.

The reaction is so fast it could have been whiplash - Stark's face goes from relaxed and arrogant to closed and downright black. Loki may have enjoyed the thorough smashing of Stark's good mood, but not today. "Managed to figure that out then, did you," Stark says, amused tone all but gone.

(So it's true.)

"I consider myself intelligent," he answers dryly. 

"Definitely more so than Hammer," Stark says, returning to smiling wolfishly, all teeth, all the better to eat you with. Loki keeps his composure, does not let his thoughts wander. "I told you so."

Told you so that your heroes lied. 

"They do," Loki agrees, and Stark raises an eyebrow. "They do lie. But so do I."

"Oh, _you_ ," Stark says, pretends to swoon, pulls himself back up sharp. "But everyone knows that you lie, God of Lies, so where's the fun in that? Out there," and Stark throws his hand out in a sweeping arc, "people expect their heroes to be the shining examples of humanity, mutanity, to live up to the name of their reputation. You just happened to be lucky, Rudolph."

"Is that so," Loki replies, deadpan.

"It is so," he continues, he's on a roll and Loki isn't about to stop him. "Have you read newspapers, or do you only read Asgard Daily? Stories about people clawing their way up to fortune and fame, how _inspirational_ , how much they have gone through," and at this he sneers, lip curls up. "Everyone likes those - but they _love_ stories about people who hit rock bottom; scandals, corruption, bankrupt. Those always make the front page."

"So what's your story," he inquires, all but innocence and Stark grins savagely. 

"I'm a genius billionaire playboy philanthropist," he answers, like rattling off his phone number or maybe a pick-up line, "who does whatever he wants and _gets away with it_. Unlike Asgard, on Midgard money makes the world go round. Can't say the same for you, darling - I've heard you got your mouth sewn shut."

How the fuck does Stark know. 

"Haven't found your little liar?" Stark leers. "Find out quickly, little god - I know so, so much."

"Fuck you," he spits out, and teleports himself out of range and far, further away. 

* * *

The week is spent on contacting other heroes and allies, checking on the wards and charms Amora had placed repeatedly if only to make her turn the colour of a ripe lingonberry, and avoiding anything that reminds him of Stark. He doesn't look for his 'little liar', repeating _later, later_ in the hopes of finishing up the mess Stark has created and buries all and any feelings under duties and responsibilities. Stark he leaves to Frost, maybe she can rip the information out of his brain like ripping the head off a Gummy bear but they want him coherent in time for the trial so that option is sadly, out. 

(Four more days until Stark's trial, Osborn says, he pulled some strings. Four more days until we put the fucker away.)

Some things are bound to go wrong. 

* * *

**SHOCKING NEWS: OSCORP’S HUMAN EXPERIMENTATIONS COME TO LIGHT!**

_Reported by Terri Kidder_

_Photographs provided courtesy of Peter Parker_

Although Norman Osborn (see above picture) may be one of New York's beloved superheroes, fighting alongside New York's protectors the Cabal, it seems that his business ethics are far from honourable. In a shocking turn of events, it has been discovered that that a sizeable chunk of Oscorp's budget goes into weapons and weapons testing, said testing carried out on humans and mutants alike. 

Dr. Curt Connors, 38, an ex-Oscorp researcher who resigned after months of turning a blind eye to the human testing, tells us about the decisions made. "It was horrible," he said. "At first they convinced us researchers that the humans were mutants, capable of healing themselves and it seemed to be that way - until I actually saw someone die. Now, we either resigned or are too scared to actually stop. We killed someone. There's no other way to put it."

An astonishing amount of test subjects are mutants, more than half of the list provided. Everett Thompson, 19, shares his experiences: "They first give you the money and promise you good healthcare and incentive if they happen to screw up. But once they do screw up, they just dump you by the roadside."

Further investigations reveal that this has been going on for quite [cont. on page 14]

— — — — —

"What is this, Osborn," Frost demands as she places the paper with a sharp whack upon his desk, Namor at her heels. 

Osborn must have super vision because he doesn't even look at the paper. "This is a smear campaign."

"Mutants," Frost bites out. "You're testing on mutants. Don't play a fool with me - I looked through your records and I can very well rip the information from your mind if I have to."

"They were paid," Osborn says, his face a mask of deceptive calm. Loki thinks he will reach his breaking point soon enough; Victor, sensing the same, pulls Loki back away from the confrontation. Skurge merely steps in front of Amora once more, the latter tensing up like a poised snake. 

"We had an agreement, Norman Osborn," Frost says. Osborn, for all his maturity, rolls his eyes at her. 

"You - " and the windows shatter, glass raining down in the room like a gay glitter parade; but glass _hurts_ so Loki throws up a shield around Namor, Victor and himself. (Amora can fend for her own.) Frost and Osborn ignore their surroundings, locked in an intense staring match - but Loki knows better. They are on Frost's mental plane, and Frost is likely to be enacting some sort of cruel ministrations, _pain in the mind_ , on Osborn.

A moment, and two. Breathe out, slow and easy and _don't blink_.

(Loki blinks.)

Frost and Osborn are suddenly thrown clear across the room, away from each other, smashing against the respective walls. Namor is beside Frost in a flash, hands hovering nervously over her form; no one misses the positively murderous glare he shoots Osborn. Loki eventually goes over to Osborn, after much hesitation - Victor and Amora hold their ground. 

Frost recovers first, looking up at Osborn. 

She says but one word, unintentionally or otherwise:

"Monster."

Loki freezes, but it is not he the word is meant for. Osborn jerks back to reality, whispering, "out."

No one moves. 

"Out," much more strongly now, and even louder, "OUT, ALL OF YOU, GET OUT OF MY OFFICE," and perhaps Osborn has gone off the deep end, no one stays to find out. They scramble out of the room, the door slammed harshly and locked behind them; then deafening silence. 

"Well, that was interesting," Amora comments without preamble.

Another day would have everyone glaring at her, but today much has changed. Frost breathes heavily, leaning on Namor who supports her steadfastedly. 

"I'm afraid we have come to a point where we have a clash in interest," she finally tells them softly. "It was a pleasure meeting most of you."

"Likewise," Namor agrees. "I consider the mutants as my own flesh and blood. I can stand for Osborn's values no more." He shifts, adjusting his grip on Frost. "Victor, Loki, Enchantress, Skurge. I fear this is farewell."

"Understood," Loki says numbly. "We hope to cross paths with you again someday, if not as friends then as allies." Namor nods jerkily at them and starts to shuffle Frost over to the elevator.

The elevator comes, and they leave.

* * *

Victor finds him later in one of Osborn's labs, quiet and deep in thought. On the desk, small clockwork mechanisms imbued by magic whirs and moves around to a non-existent tune, solely for his distraction. Frost and Namor's departure and Osborn's furious demeanour are still at the front of his mind, and it will be a long time before he can think of anything else. 

"Loki," Victor says. "I wish to discuss a matter with you."

He snaps his fingers, and the whirring comes to a stop. "What is it," he says, distracted. 

Victor looks uncharacteristically uncertain, or maybe that's just a trick of the light. "I have been called back to Latveria," he says slowly. 

"Oh." Loki says. Victor is still the ambassador of Latveria, after all. "When will you be back?"

"No, friend," Victor says hastily. "Let me rephrase myself. I also wish to return to Latveria."

"You'll miss the trial," Loki points out until he realises that yes, that is probably what Victor wants. Victor nods, as if to prove the point made further. 

"I can no longer trust Norman Osborn," he admits. "Frost and Namor's absence in this group is crippling to the Cabal as a whole. Norman Osborn will lead us well no more." Victor definitely looks hesitant now, but Loki does not dwell - he feels older, much much older, a millennia or more old. He feels tired and weary and is on the verge of giving up. 

"I'm not stopping you," he tells Victor tiredly. "Safe journey, Victor."

But Victor does not leave - instead, he pulls himself up to his full height. "Doom will like to extend an invitation to Loki to visit Latveria," he says. "As a sign of goodwill from Latveria to Asgard." In his eyes, Loki can see a glimmer of hope, that Loki would accept. 

Well, why not? Loki surmises. Frankly, it would be a relief to turn his back to Stark's increasingly perplexing antics and words; to forget about the trial and to relax and not care who plays Loki the Lie-smith's cards for all to see. Victor is a close friend, a dear ally; he would so hate to disappoint. 

But he is a prince of Asgard, and his first and foremost duty is to the throne. He cannot reside in Latveria, where Thor does not stay. "I'm sorry, Victor," he tells him gently, regrets when that glimmer winks out. "Perhaps another time."

"I understand," Victor says, but Loki notices his hands, twitching furiously as if he wants to hold onto Loki and shake, and Loki doesn't know how he should feel about that. Victor does not act on that impulse, much to Loki's half-relief, and merely inclines his head. "Fare you well, Loki Odinson."

Victor leaves and Loki watches him with the air of a shipwrecked man who has let the ship sail past. "Goodbye, Victor," he says, and wonders why he feels like he has lost something of his own. 

[Three more days to Stark's trial.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was awfully long, but I would like to thank Kytt, Gabs and Amaririsu yet again for their continued support. 
> 
> Special mentions of Warbird and Claire who pointed out my unfortunate mistakes which have been rectified to the best of my abilities. 
> 
> Also, a very huge thank you to lilacpapillion and the-hound-of-Sherlock for their fan edit and fan art. The pictures should be in my writing tag on my tumblr. 
> 
> Last but not least, thank you to you, for making it this far, because god knows this is my first multi-chaptered fic. Whew. 
> 
> Chapter four will be up by the end of this week. Hopefully.


	4. Chapter 4

_The halls of Asgard are shining, shimmering golden, but Loki dwells not on his surrounding. On the high table on which the royal family usually dines sits the nobles, the judges of this competition between Loki and the two dwarves._

_He does not need to know the results; he knows already the outcome._

_One of the two brothers, the stouter one, walks up to him and sneers. "Your head, your highness," he demands mockingly, his face leering and confident._

_Loki fights down the urge to run and flee, of which surely the bards of Asgard will sing of endlessly should they witness such an event. He flashes a smile, albeit shakily, instead._

_"My friend," he says, choosing his words with great care. The dwarf's eyes narrow dangerously - but Loki has yet to show him the true extent of the title of Silvertongue. "There is a problem with your demand. To give you my head is to offer you my neck - and that was not included in the terms we agreed upon."_

_The dwarf starts to pull himself to his full height, but Loki rushes on. "Unless, of course, you are able to severe my head from my body without touching my neck. If it is so, let it be given that should my neck be touched, you shall offer your own head and neck." Loki pulls at the collar of his tunic, freeing his neck and revealing the pale skin underneath; an offering, a challenge to the dwarf._

_He watches the dwarf and knows, safe in his quick wits and words, that there is no life to be lost. Not today._

_But as if on cue, the dwarf's face split open into an unholy smile. "Your head is still mine," he says gruffly with no small amount of glee, "so will I sew your mouth shut, to still your silver tongue."_

_Loki turns around, pride be damned, but the dwarf grasps his forearm roughly and shoves him against the table Loki's gifts rest upon. He looks up at Odin, at Frigga, at Thor; but they are not there, where have they gone, where are they? He sees Sif, still with coarse and inky hair, looking down at him from the high table, where the rest of the nobles laughed and dined._

_One glance, and she turns away._

  
_The dwarf forces his head back, an awl and coarse black thread in his hand. He bends over Loki, huffing vile breath onto his face and Loki would have gagged had he not been too terrified. The grin is still there, although much more wider, distorted,_ familiar _?_

_"Foolish little god," and the dwarf suddenly morphs into Stark, trademark grin and all. He cups Loki's face almost gently, croons, "give me a show, won't you?" and brushes a kiss on the corner of Loki's lips. Loki leans into him, closing his eyes..._

_The grip turns bruisingly hard, Loki's eyes snap open, the dull shine of the awl in Stark's hand, drawing closer, closer; Stark continues to grin, he wants a show; the awl pierces the spot where Stark had just kissed and Loki opens his mouth to -_

Wake up. 

The bed is wet with sweat beneath him, and the digital clock that rests upon the nearby table reads far too early in the morning for any productive activity. The spot where the needle had went through tingles unpleasantly; Loki raises a finger to trace over the almost invisible scars. 

( _Foolish little god_ , a whisper at the back of his mind, _give me a show, won't you?_ Loki ignores.)

He wipes the sweat on his brows away, gets out of bed and makes for the bathroom - today is a big, big day, as Osborn had said the previous night. 

Today is Stark's trial. 

* * *

"What do you mean, we have to move?" Amora demands. "Do you know how much time I spent on those wards?"

The man looks at her, unapologetic. "Ma'am," he says and no one misses Amora's face going from black to blacker, "yer can aither 'ave yer trial safe against mojo but infested with termites - or yer might as well set up yer magic circles and voodoo in the new courtroom nice an' comfertable. Not my probl'm." 

Before Amora can break out into a tirade and curse the man into a frog, a rat, god forbid a mixture of both; Loki steps in. "Thank you for informing us," he says, dismissing the man. "We'll move the wards."

The man looks at Loki disinterestedly before ambling off, and Amora turns on him. "That was a mortal," she points out vehemently. 

"He had a point, Enchantress," he replies, calm. 

Amora graces him with a sneer, and what time is it, it's far too early in the morning for him to be taking care of this. "We are gods, Odinson," she says pointedly. "We bow to no whim of a mere mortal. Or have you placed yourself on the same level as them, oh mighty son of Odin?"

"What difference will it make, Amora?" Loki returns. "You heard him. You're welcome to place your bottom upon a rotting piece of furniture, but I doubt the rest of the people present today will be similarly inclined."

Amora glowers at him. "They're here to watch Stark be put behind bars anyway," she says, scathing. "Osborn just wants to show off."

"Humour him," Loki snaps. 

(Subtle and soft, _give me a show?_ )

Wait. 

 _I want to put on a show_ , Stark had said, says with a slow smirk dancing upon his lips. 

"Fuck," Loki says out loud. Amora throws him a scandalized look. 

"You have limited time, Enhantress," Loki all but shouts at her. "Set up those wards, as fast as you can, and make sure that it holds. We're being played, dammit -"

"By who," Amora sneers, "Stark -"

"Yes, Stark," and Amora stares at him with the look of _have you lost your marbles_. He snarls at her. "Stark wants to put on a show, you fool, he's planning something - "

Amora scoffs. "Your intelligence must be decreasing, Odinson. Stark's a mere mortal alone in that room."

"He has a plan, he always had, it's going to be something big," _parades and flowers and his name in the sky_ , Loki had dreamt of that a time ago. "Set up those wards, Amora, we haven't a moment to lose. _Now_."

She scowls at him but chooses not to argue further, disappearing in a swirl of green. Loki takes a deep breath, calms himself. 

( _Foolish little god_ , it's too late.)

Time to find Osborn. 

* * *

"Don't be ridiculous, Odinson," Osborn says testily. He looks more haggard, circles beneath his eyes - thank the Norns Spider-Man or some other villains decided to not attack New York for the past few days. 

"Cancel the trial, Osborn," Loki insists, but the man only holds up a finger for silence. Loki bristles, _no one tells him what to do, dammit_ , but lets Osborn talk anyway. 

"There are superheroes," he starts, "that can very well take Stark down if he tries anything funny. Hell, sic Magneto onto him and any gun in his hand will just bend back into itself! That's why we're having a trial _full_ of superheroes, or did you forget?"

"I did not forget," Loki says icily. "Stark is up to something," he repeats for emphasis, "he wants to put on a show."

"Give me proof," Osborn replies bluntly. "Proof of this plan." Loki stares at him and he raises an eyebrow. 

"Is your pride so precious to you?" Loki asks instead, all spite. 

Osborn sighs heavily. "I can't cancel the trial, we need at least a day's notice," he says grudgingly. "And everyone is already making their way here. We'll lose face after all the trouble we went through."

Loki shakes his head. "We will come to regret this," he warns him. 

Osborn shrugs. "What can Stark do? Shoot him and he'll go down," he leans over to flick at a speck of dust on the edge of his table, " _just like that_."

(Just like Hammer.)

No use arguing, Loki realizes. He shakes his head one last time and teleports away. 

* * *

The courtroom is mostly empty, save for Amora, Loki and a few more people who came a tad too early. He glances at the clock - it was still eleven, and the trial is set in the afternoon. 

Far too early. 

Someone settles in the spot besides him and he inclines his head up to look at whoever it is. Why sit with a stranger when the place is so empty?

"Magneto apologizes for being unable to attend. Some matters of importance has cropped up, and I'm here in both his stead and my own." The woman smiles at him, her brown curls framing her petite face - but Loki sees for a second, a flash of yellow eyes. 

Ah. 

"You must be Mystique," he greets. "I am Loki Odinson. Many thanks for coming today."

"Likewise," she says out of courtesy. "Will Emma be joining us?"

"There has been a minor dispute within the Cabal," Loki answers conversationally. "Miss Frost and Namor will be unlikely to come today."

Mystique eyes him, but accepts the explaination with a curt nod. 

They stay in companionable silence as the courtroom slowly fills with people over time. Ambassador Schmidt strides in with his assistant, sitting at the very back; Madame Masque sweeps in mere moments later, her mask elegantly perched on her face. Fisk walks in and greets Loki like an old friend although they have never met before, a reporter and a photographer slips in, their lanyards reading 'The Daily Bugle'. Some people Loki does not recognise but he is sure Osborn had invited joins the crowd - a red-haired woman carrying a sizable metal briefcase sits down behind the defendant's table, and a man with four metallic arms maneuvers himself into the room, carefully avoiding Amora's markings. 

Speaking of the devil, where is she?

He turns to ask his companion, but falters when he sees not the familiar face of his friend, but Mystique's chosen appearance. The absence of Victor's company hits him like a punch, leaving him reeling and also bitter aftertaste in his mouth. Mystique turns to look at him but he shakes his head, gives a small smile, _everything is fine_. 

Amora and Skurge saunter in soon enough and take their seats on the other side of the court. Osborn hurries in, taking a seat next to Fisk and leans in to discuss matters with his fellow businessmen. Loki glances about the room once more, and cannot ignore the feeling of _trap, trap, it's all a trap_. 

Judge Hart enters the courtroom and everyone rises up. The legal procedures are droll and much tamer compared to Asgard's courts of justice, and Loki watches with a perfunctory eye, preferring to look out for any possible threats. Amora would have been unable to set the more complex wards in place, requiring more than a measly period of five hours to properly set up such wards. 

Finally, Stark is escorted in by two burly guards. The crowd hushes and Loki leans forward in his seat. The villain grins widely at them, ever so smug. 

(He catches Loki's eyes and winks at him; Loki can only feel the unpleasant tingling of his scar, a subtle reminder of his dream he does not need.)

 _You're up to something, aren't you_ , he mouths at Stark, who merely cocks his head in a gesture of _I can't hear you;_ but his eyes, shining and excited, give everything away. _Patience_ , Loki catches before Stark is placed before the court in his full glory. 

"Anthony Edward Stark," comes the judge's gravelly voice. "You hereby stand before us for the crime of planned and executed homicide. Do you - "

"Your Honour," Stark calls out, interrupting him. "Skip the proceedings, everyone would rather read the iTunes user agreement." He turns to the court, sweeping a critical over all of them and lingering a while more on Osborn.

"I plead guilty."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise I may have posted a preview of sorts on tumblr, but due to certain decisions that particular part will appear next week. I apologise. 
> 
> On a happier note: REFERENCES GALORE, GOTTA CATCH 'EM ALL
> 
> And: Two thousand hits and a hundred kudos! Thank you everyone! I would offer a giveaway prompting thing but well... 8D Might be too presumptuous XD
> 
> Thank you to Kytt, Gabs and Dory as always.


	5. Chapter 5

_"I plead guilty."_

A stunned silence throughout the whole room, and Stark just stands there proudly as if he told everyone that he had just invented the newest form of clean energy. (Which he had, actually, but that's not the point.)

"Mr. Stark," Judge Hart begins again but Stark ignores him yet again, "I plead guilty for planned homicide, executed homicide, incition of mass destruction, vandalism of the Statue of Liberty - that thing totally needed a new paint job; going to other countries without bothering about immigration, god-napping, imprisoning said god but I let him go anyway, more planning for mass destruction, and general deceiving of the whole public." He turns back to the judge, shit-eating grin on his face. "Have I missed anything?"

"Contempt of the court, Mr. Stark," the judge warns him, but Stark just scoffs. 

"What are you going to do? Send me out of my own trial?" He glances about the room. "Not that I mind - a lot of people here seems to want my ass."

Loki wants to scream at Osborn. He's being made a fool of by inviting everyone to this trial, can't he see, but the man is just too fixated on revenge,  _damn him_. 

"He's making fun of us," Mystique says quietly. 

"Welcome to my life," Loki grumbles in reply. Stark is still talking, and Loki longs to just walk over and get him to shut up. 

"Mr. Stark!" Hart exclaims, his ears an interesting shade of red. Beetroot, maybe. 

"Do I stand in a corner and put a D-cap on my head now?" Stark asks without missing a beat.

"No," the judge says. "I want your defense lawyer to start talking."

Stark shrugs once. "Don't have one," he says nonchalantly. 

"He wouldn't happen to become an expert in law overnight, would he," Loki says out of the corner of his mouth. Mystique shrugs to that too. 

Hart frowns down at Stark, who offers him an easy smile. "Mr. Stark," he says, "surely you were informed of this trial."

"Well, yeah," Stark says. "But I was in captivity, you know, nice little room all to myself. No contacting 'outside forces' but I did try astral projection or whatever it's called. Didn't work. Might be because of my empty stomach."

"Your empty stomach," Hart repeats. 

"Did I stutter? Empty stomach. Mine. They didn't feed me, if you need me to be Captain Obvious."

"What," Osborn says, the face is makes a peculiar mixture between Christmas coming early and someone had shat in his cereal, again. Everyone turns to look at him.

"Don't be shy, Norman," Stark calls over. "How about I show all of you instead?" He pulls out his phone, types out a few commands -

And all of a sudden, the room is filled with the ringing of phones, on silent mode or otherwise. Loki pulls his own given mobile device out, where a short clip is playing. 

" _...food. The next time I offer_ ," comes Osborn's voice, " _might be a long time._ "

The clip pauses there. Loki feels the colour drain from his face; besides him, Mystique watches the clip on her phone with a blank calmness; a countenance Loki is all too familiar with. He looks up accusingly at Stark and the infuriating man is already grinning at him, blowing him a kiss and mouthing  _thank you, darling_.

Everyone's looking at Osborn now. 

"Sorry to cut it short, but the rest of it is me languishing away like a princess on top of a tower. Except I was underground. Wasn't above ground." Stark draws attention back to him, keeping an eye on the judge who looks up from his own phone. 

"Mr. Osborn," he says. "Is this true?"

"Of course not," Osborn blusters angrily but Stark cuts in. "Of course he'll deny it, what kind of question is that?"

"Wasn't he on the news for that human testing a few days ago?" People start to whisper, stares accusingly at Osborn, who glares defiantly back. Stark smiles like a cat who caught the canary. 

The judge bangs the hammer on his gavel once. "Order," he commands. "Today we gather to judge Anthony Stark, not to accuse our fellow men of other crimes. This is Stark's trial, and I will have it remain that way."

"Don't worry, your Honour," Stark chips in and grins, wolfish. "There's no way anyone would forget this trial today." He clears his throat, and  _it's coming, Loki can feel it in his bones for the air shifts with the scent of a well-planned play_ \- "Avengers Assemble."

All hell breaks loose. 

* * *

It starts like this: 

Stephen Strange appears in the middle of courtroom with a loud audible 'pop', and a Hulk in a tow. 

There's a huge roar (from the Hulk), a couple of startled yells (from the reporter plus photographer) and a strangled squeal from  the judge himself that no one really notices because big, green and angry hostile is in the middle of a very packed courtroom. Strange gives a nasty little smile and proceeds to remove himself from the vicinity of the Hulk by teleporting himself out of the courtroom as the Hulk barrels into the rows of chair, sending the unlucky heroes scattering for safety, the even unluckier few caught and pummeled into the ground among the debris. 

If Loki may say so (and he truly does say so), they are well and truly fucked. 

As the Hulk embarks on its rampage, Loki  _pulls_ himself to Osborn's side. _Get your armour_ , he shouts over the chaos and the man shakes his head, wild eyed, _it's back at the Tower_ ; to which Loki hisses _useless_. He glances over to see Amora and Skurge engaging the Hulk in combat along with other superheroes who have finally overcome the shock of an ambush; Fisk, Schmidt and the man with robotic arms being some of the few. 

 _Stay down_ , he orders Osborn, before Strange suddenly 'pops' back in again with a purple-clad man whom starts shooting arrows indiscriminately everywhere. _Hawkeye_ , Loki registers before he catches sight of Stark scrambling out of the Hulk's way and towards the woman with the briefcase; before an arrow flies into his line of sight. 

He catches the damn arrow before it takes his eye out - and it explodes in his face. 

The impact leaves him reeling and would have surely blown his face off had he been less than a God - but Loki is no mortal. He scowls and staggers his way over to Stark, making sure to conjure a good-sized ball of green fire and aim it at Barton's face en route. 

Strange pops in yet again - when did he even leave - and deposits a hooded figure wielding a shield (of all things) and heading straight for Ambassador Schmidt. Loki pays him no attention, hoping that the combined efforts of the heroes of America would be enough to fend three members of the Avengers off, and finally come within hearing distance of Stark, who seems to be having a minor spat with the woman. 

"A raise, Stark," the woman is saying coolly, "you asked me to deliver a briefcase that ends up weighing like an elephant. This isn't in the job description."

"Trouble in paradise?" Loki inquires acidly as he finally shimmers into his full armour, horned helmet and all. Stark looks up at him, whistles once and grins.

"Not anymore, babe," and the man winks lasciviously at him. "Romanov, I'll give you that raise - so stand back." Romanov - the Black Widow, Loki realises,  _why didn't he realise_ \- steps back with a triumphant and self-satisfied smirk as Stark says, "Daddy's home."

Loki has a split-second thought of  _Stark is Widow's father?_ before something else louder, more important, more familiar takes his attention with a loud 'pop' -

"Brother!"

 _Thor_. 

* * *

The next few moments are a combination of the following:

> a) Thor barrels towards him and Loki draws his staff of choice out to block Mjölnir's incoming blow;

> b) Strange gives one last little bow to no one in particular and winks out of existence with a final 'pop';

> c) His seidr fizzles out again, he knows what has befallen the room; Amora gives a strangled cry of surprise and outrage as Skurge takes a blow to his head from the Hulk;

> d) And the briefcase, small and unassuming, spills out into a myriad of red-and-gold metal pieces, reassembling and attaching itself to Stark's body from the feet up in one fluid motion, the final touch being the slide of a golden metal mask over Stark's positively gleeful face;

And the courtroom falls silent (except for those involved with the Hulk and the Hulk itself). Someone whispers, "Iron Man."

"Yup," Stark's voice issues out of the armour. "That's me." 

There's a high-pitched whine, similar to whenever Osborn decides on firing the repulsors in his suit - which Loki realises that yes, Stark is going to fire something as the man raises his hand to fire a bluish-white beam at where the judge cowers. The wood bursts into flames and the judge, lucky, dives out of the way in time. 

"Oh yeah, baby," Stark says, "welcome to my trial."

* * *

The usual drill when dealing with anything pertaining to the Avengers has been: take the Hulk out, followed by Thor, the man known as the Captain and finally Hawkeye and the Widow. There has never been a case where Anthony Stark himself carried out the latest schemes of villainy on an unsuspecting New York - it is always the Captain with a plan, and the subtle wave of money beneath. 

The usual drill clearly does not apply in this case. 

The Hulk makes itself known again as it punches Skurge across the room, grinding chairs into sawdust; Hawkeye takes the opportunity to release a new volley of incendiary arrows into the bemused spectators of Stark's armour. The Captain seems to be viciously renewing his efforts in aiming for Ambassador Schmidt, who Madame Masque assists with her guns firing in rapid succession; the man with four mechanical limbs rises to the challenge of defeating Stark. 

Loki blocks the next swing of Mjölnir because mind you, without seidr he can still hold his own just fine. He knows that Amora is now resorting to hand-to-hand combat (against the Black Widow, of all people) even if she dislikes it greatly on the basis of the high possibility of breaking her nails - but desperate times call for desperate measures and the Cabal is becoming very desperate indeed. 

"Brother," Thor says, his voice booming in Loki's ears and Loki finds that he has missed it, although he is loathe to show it. "I have missed you too, if this is the way you wish to show your affection."

"No one asked you to greet me with a Mjölnir to my head, Thor," Loki snaps. He finds it increasingly hard to not tune Thor out and just focus on fighting his not-brother. They trade more blows (read: Loki avoids them and tries to sneak some in); Loki curses the anti-magic field Stark has invented and Osborn for being useless, and Thor merely takes everything in his joyful stride. 

"T'is a shame, brother," Thor says conversationally as he aims for Loki's solar plexus yet again, "that you cannot see the folly of the Midgardians. They truly are not worthy of the Nine Realms - see how they cower, how they lie and fight and kill amongst themselves!"

"Not our place to judge, Thor," Loki grits out, swiping at the back of Thor's knees. "What about your precious Avengers and your mortal friends? Are they not Midgardian as well?"

"They are of honour, and are the exception," Thor says confidently and Loki wonders for the millionth time since he set foot on this realm whether Thor has been living in a Midgardian cave while not calling thunder upon its cities. 

"T'is a shame then," Loki repeats mockingly, "that your loyalty is misguided as your sight is clouded." He plants his staff firmly onto the ground, using it as leverage to swing himself up and plant his feet into the middle of Thor's chest. A fine swing, Loki imagines, as Thor grabs onto his ankle and pulls him along, sending the both of them sprawling across the courtroom floor. 

Arse. 

He launches himself at Thor as soon as he skids to a stop, sorely missing his seidr and its ability to make duplicates of himself. Thor reciprocates the action by grappling with him, elbowing him in the face in one instance and kneeing each other in the gut in another, Mjölnir and staff all but forgotten. "See sense, brother mine," he grunts and Loki snarls back, "only if you see first."

Loki is on the verge of poking Thor's eyes out when something hot blasts past his ears, effectively distracting him. Thor takes the opportunity to heft Loki up and throw him across the room, and Loki can only thank the Norns that the Hulk did not notice a flying Norse God before he crashes into the wall. He scrambles up, only to notice that, that the heroes are, are  _losing_.

Bodies are strewn across the floor like the hay in the stables of Asgard. Any furniture left are either on fire, pounded into sawdust or broken; a few humans (and Mystique, Loki notices) are furiously pushing at the door that refuses to open, intent on escape. Amora is still going at it with Widow, the former bearing noticeable gashes and the latter now assisted by Hawkeye; Masque is down for the count, and Schmidt faring no better with the Captain bearing down upon him. The Hulk is pummelling an unfortunate person into the ground. 

And Stark merely hovers in the air, smug (and victorious, Loki notes with the ripped off mechanical arm of the man from before, surely to join his extensive array of trophies), enjoying the show. 

A massacre, Loki realises. ( _Trap, trap, it's all a trap._ )

He looks for Osborn within the mess, finds him hounded by the reporter and the photographer from the Daily Bugle, backed into a corner. "Why aren't you fighting, Mr. Osborn," the reporter is asking as the camera flashes, shot after shot. "How can you let this happen? Why aren't you assisting the Executioner and the Enchantress - "

What happens next is almost entirely too fast, but Osborn's hand shoots out and pins the reporter's neck to the wall, effectively choking her quiet. 

"Why don't you shut up."

Osborn's figure is wracked by what seems to be sobs,  _he finally gone off the deep end_ , but it is much, much worse. Rather than sobs, they are _giggles_ , giggles that turn into nervous half-laughs and half-laughs that grows into full-blown maniacal cackling that leaves no doubts as to Osborn's state of mind. Osborn squeezes, tighter and tighter until finally an audible 'crack' resounds throughout the room and the reporter's neck snaps to the side; she falls to the ground, moves no more. 

The fighting stops there and then, everyone turning to watch America's beloved hero, the Iron Patriot. "Well?" Obsborn drawls, voice unhinged and eyes wide with unrestrained glee, "who's next?"

"The Green Goblin," the photographer who looks far too young to ignore the death of his colleague just like that shouts, "I know that laugh - it's the Green Goblin!"

"Smart kid," Osborn laughs and shoves the boy roughly into the wall. He stalks towards Stark, shit-eating grin on his face, mutters under his breath to himself and Loki thinks  _too far, out of control_ ; Stark slides up his metal mask and says, -

"Took you long enough, Norman."

_I want to put on a show._

He never said he would be the star. 

( _Trap, trap, it's all a trap. Foolish little god_.)

Stark grins down at Norman Osborn. "Say cheese."

* * *

It ends with Stark blasting a Hulk-sized hole through the ceiling, through which the Avengers make their escape up into the sky where a humongous aircraft awaits. 

It ends with the Hulk smashing Skurge one last time into the floor. 

It ends with the photographer (his lanyard reads Parker) snapping picture after incriminating picture of Osborn at his maddest. 

It ends with Stark grinning across the room as he uploads the footage of the whole fight to the Internet; not at Osborn, but at Loki,  _did you like the show?_  

It ends with Loki standing in a room of fallen heroes, watching as an incoherently screeching Osborn is subdued and taken away, as Amora herself screams over her dead lover; as Loki stands alone. 

He visits Osborn later, his command of seidr finally restored to him. The latter is in a straitjacket, all pale pasty skin and darkened eye bags in a room of white padded walls. 

"Hello there, Odinson," Osborn says hoarsely. "You were right. He planned everything." His voice is stuttering and raspy, similar to what one would sound like after copious bouts of screaming. 

"What was that, Osborn," Loki half-demands. 

"That was the," and Osborn breaks out into a giggle, "the Green Goblin. I was a public menace, I was. Th-then I controlled it." He calms down, looking almost like the Osborn Loki knew, haughty and irritable, "and I became the Iron Patriot. I was _good_." A giggle-snort escapes, almost unwillingly. "Looks like I'm bust-ed."

He is. No sane member of the public would trust him now, the shining hero of America, actually so tarnished and unworthy. The Green Goblin of all personas - the top public enemy of a half-decade past, and Osborn had to be that one. Loki eyes him with pity and a trace of fear - it was madness, he knows, madness that Frost saw in Osborn's mind. 

"I'll see you again, Osborn," he finally says. 

"How about never," Osborn suggests. "Goodbye. The Cabal is gone."

It ends with the dissolution of the Cabal. 

* * *

It starts with one text on Loki's phone. 

'Need a place to stay, darling?' it reads. Loki looks up at Oscorp Towers and back down at the phone - the number is 'blocked', but he is fairly certain about the identity of the owner. 

What has he to lose now? Perhaps, he thinks, he should cease meddling with the Midgardian's affairs, and merely focus on bringing Thor home. 

'Yes.' he types back. 'Do you have a room?'

 _Send_. 

A slick red car drives up on the road behind him, and the door slides open with an almost silent hiss. Loki turns around, gingerly approaches the vehicle. 

"Plenty of room," Stark drawls, devoid of armour. "Hop in, Buttercup."

Loki steps into the car, and the car door locks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update on Friday because I just graduated from High School today, and wish to share my joy. 
> 
> My kudos to theatervine, who made a fairly good hypothesis. 
> 
> My thanks to Kytt, Gabs and Dory as always, too. 
> 
> Here's the tricky part - chapter six is in the works, but I have to go on hiatus until November-December. I have exams >> I would still check for messages, I guess, but not much of posting and updating unless inspiration really hits me. 
> 
> Thank you for your consideration.
> 
> EDIT: I /hate/ formatting, why the hell are the italics sticking together, GDI.


	6. Chapter 6

[ _New Mexico, three years ago._ ]

Puente Antiguo in the summer is a swelteringly hot place to be in, even with the blessed comfort of an air-conditioning unit. Jane feels a trickle of sweat wind its way down from the base of her neck to the small of her back, seeping into the already damp material that is her clothes sticking to her body. From the heat or from stress, she cannot tell - but it seems to be the latter, judging from how the man across her is clad in a suit and does not seem remotely close to breaking a sweat.

"Ms. Foster," the man says. "This has been stipulated in the agreement. Please understand that you are bound by legal contract to return the funds we invested into your project."

"More time," Jane finds herself repeating, pleading. "We're close to making a breakthrough, there's been a definite spike in activity recorded. We're this close, please."

He eyes her, remarkably unimpressed. "The Stark Science Foundation has many more new scientists waiting for their breakthrough. We do not make exceptions, Ms. Foster, we give everyone a chance like we have given you yours." He clears his throat, and adopts an apologetic expression. "We are sorry, but fair is fair."

Jane comes to a standstill, her brain racing furiously. Her research has come so far; for her to stop now would be tantamount to giving it all up. She cannot give it up, she can't. Darcy's university credits depend on her; Erik came all the way to New Mexico and stayed; her whole life is dedicated to this project.

She takes a deep breath.

"We have come to an understanding, I presume," Coulson - that's his name - says.

"Is there no other way," she asks. She knows the answer, but hopes for another, nonetheless.

"None foreseeable," Coulson replies calmly. He gets up and gathers the papers, intent on leaving. His work here is (almost) done.

A moment's hesitation, before Jane plays her card. "I know about Stark Industries. What really goes on below."

doesn't even look up at her. "Are you threatening to blackmail us, Ms. Foster."

"It's not blackmail." Jane tries to keep calm - she can see Erik's disappointed face, head shaking a resolute no - but she has already stepped past the point of no return. She cannot back down. "I'm offering you an alternative. I assist Stark Industries with anything you require around this area, and I continue my research with your funds."

"Your research is considerably costly," Coulson points out.

She raises an eyebrow at him, hiding her desperation behind a thin mask of confidence. "Then I'll just have to help you in something of equal magnitude then," she asserts.

It seems to be the right thing to say, as Coulson finally stands up and offers her a small smile. "Well,"he says. "I suppose that it is fortunate that Stark Industries has been looking into opening a new branch in this area." He inclines his head. "You will be hearing from us, Ms. Foster."

He silently leaves the room. Darcy and Erik come in mere moments later.

"Everything okay, boss?" Darcy asks, both earbuds still in her ears. Jane offers Erik a tight-lipped smile.

"Yes," she says. "It will be."

* * *

A year later, on the day that the Einsten-Rosen bridge finally opens, Jane finds her own bargaining chip.

Darcy and Selvig have found out through their own means, but chooses to stand by her, for better or for worse. She cannot feel any more grateful to them, but yet each night she sleeps with guilt on her mind. With time, however, she has learnt to ignore the feeling, locking it away into a corner and just focus on research, research and research. 

(You might say she might have begun to enjoy some of the assignments - life as a scientist can be terribly stifling at times, all that waiting.)

The first time an official government agent comes by, she almost panics. Darcy covers up for her, rattling off some new discoveries and data that has Jane 'terribly excited, don't mind her, I'm a little scared myself.' She orders Darcy a new iPod cover after that, and Darcy smiles a little grimly at the present. 

(The next time another government official drops by, they're prepared.)

She hasn't killed anyone, and for that she is thankful; but she has left others to die when she could have very well saved them. The criminal underworld is a tricky affair, but keeping her head down and not meddling she learns fairly quickly. Coulson comes by every so often, if only to check on her silence and research. 

The bridge opens today, and Jane hits a man the size of Ayers Rock with her van.

He is disoriented, and apparently not of this world - both factors that SHIELD immediately take advantage of. The world full of villains and corruption needed no incentive to assault this man for the shirt off his back, and the information on whatever good the world (Midgard, the man calls Earth) has to offer is limited at best by a few buttons pressed by Coulson. Jane is there, to culture him some and to persuade him that 'Midgard' is a dangerous place by the humans' own hands. His presence becomes comforting to her to an extent - with him, she realizes, her value in Stark Industries has risen.

Her first kill is for him, when a hired thug is about to decapitate him - she empties a nearby revolver into the heart and sits back, shaking violently. He comes over to her, taking her hands in his own. 

"Lady Jane," he says. "I thank you, but you are a woman of science, not of destruction. Please, do not engage yourself in violence for my sake."

She laughs breathlessly ( _hysterics_ ) and kisses him on the mouth. Whether she loves him, or is just protecting him out of her own interests, she does not know. 

Regardless, she adds Thor Odinson to her list of people to feel guilty about before she sleeps.

* * *

[ _New York, today_ ]

The streets of Manhattan fly swiftly past them as the car speeds down the lane, passing other cars and swerving to avoid collisions at every turn. On the streets, people walk with their heads down, doing their best to not attract attention - the best defense against muggers and the like seems to be either hide from them or fight against them.

(Desperate enough? Become them.)

Stark is on his S-Phone, the very phone he had used in the court. The phone itself brings back a myriad of memories that stay bitter on Loki's tongue - of Stark's technology, which had hacked into Osborn's finest security; of the fight a few days past, defeat curling hard and heavy in his gut; and of Osborn's voice when it should have been his own, a harmless trick turned malevolent in the hands of Anthony Stark. Loki finds himself constantly underestimating the man who controls the crime scene, a mistake he is loathe to repeat.

He returns his attention to the street outside, watching as a man gets backed into an alley by a group of teenagers brandishing knives, shining dully in their hands. The people near them tuck their heads down almost immediately, pretending not to see. Loki's hand twitches once, almost reaching for the door, but he restrains himself and pushes himself back into the seat, the leather upholstery molding itself around his spine. He's in a villain's limousine, for goodness' sake, it's not as if Stark will let him go off anyway.

Then again, Loki did step into the car of his own volition. The scene passes by in a quick flash, and they leave it behind.

"Not going to help the poor sap?" Stark says, and Loki's attention snaps back to him. His eyes are still on his phone, his fingers moving smoothly over its interface. Loki regards him, schooling his features into a blank countenance. Through the window on Stark's side, he sees a too-young girl with patches of yellow and green on her arms and neck, her wrist held tight by an older man with deep-set features and angry eyes.

He thinks of the villains he has fought, the ones with powers at their fingertips or magic at their disposal. They had been a chore to take down, being able to fight back and use hostages against the heroes. He now sees the villains of everyday - the muggers, thieves and murderers, abusers, rapists and conners - a reminder of whatever he has done has been insignificant.

_See how they cower, how they lie and fight and kill amongst themselves_ , Thor had said. Loki sees, and does not wish to believe.

There are good people, Loki tries to remind himself. Frost, mutant but human nonetheless, who fights - no, once fought with him. Victor, his closest friend, fighting to protect the people of this country even if he is of Latveria. Hammer, who had told them of the Stark Science Foundation even after he failed to apply for it, instead of keeping his silence.

(Then again, Hammer is not such a good example. He should have used Selvig instead - he had told them of Foster and of Thor, upset with Foster's actions brought on by the scheme. A friend of yours is a friend of ours, Namor had assured him warmly, and both Selvig and the rest of the team ignored Loki's unflinching gaze on Selvig. Foster's actions were her own decisions, he feels, why should they spare any sympathies for her?)

He blinks briefly and the young girl is gone. Stark is still not looking at him.

"I think not," he says softly.

"Do I get an explanation?" Stark asks, curiosity twisting his lips into a wry smile. He does not look surprised by Loki's decision, and Loki does not know whether to be unsettled by his lack of said emotion, or to find solace that someone has finally begun to not underestimate him. It is an advantage at the best of times, and a hindrance at the worst.

"You don't," he replies, to which Stark simply says, "fair enough." He slips his phone into his pocket and finally looks at Loki. Loki holds his gaze unwaveringly, grinding any attraction he feels down into the ground. Now is not the time for feelings.

"So," Stark begins. Loki keeps his shoulders relaxed, willing any tension away from his muscles. Stark must be curious at the very least, at Loki's blatant willingness (or stupidity, on another nonexistent level) to walk into the wolves' den - a curiosity Loki is torn between indulging and keeping. Likewise,  Loki is curious as to Stark's similar willingness to offer one he can consider his enemy to reside in his home. "Basic rules to stick to."

"Do you happen to follow those rules," Loki inquires dryly.

"If I feel like it," Stark says lightly. "Anyway, one. Stick to your floor, and the elevator. You can do your hocus-pocus to sneak about, but I'm pretty sure that Hawkeye and Widow's floors are rigged with traps, and Bruce probably has a nasty acid trap or two hidden somewhere. As for my floor, it has GRAVY, you remember it? The whole anti-magic affair? It's in its fifth prototype now, you want to help me test it out some time?"

"Perhaps when I feel like I want to have a headache," Loki says.

Stark ignores him. "Two. Kitchen's open at all times, but clean up after yourself. You can also call in any delivery service, pizza, whatever. Or make it out of magic, if you can do that." He looks at Loki quizzically. "Can you?"

"I wonder," Loki deflects.

"Huh. Last one, don't interfere."

Here comes, Loki thinks, and closes his eyes briefly. "With?"

"Our dastardly deeds of evil," Stark states rather dramatically. "We do our stuff, and you do yours. You interfere in our stuff, and I'll lock down the whole place with GRAVY and send the Hulk after you. Are we clear?"

"Very clear," Loki says, just as the car turns into the driveway of Stark Tower. The time for regrets is long past.

* * *

The moment Stark leaves him alone on his assigned floor without giving him a tour of any sort, Loki gets to work.

He has no doubt that Stark may have set up the whole floor with cameras in every corner, and immediately looks for them. Osborn had been a paranoid man and had similarly bugged his quarters with his own version of security - a version that Loki had quickly disposed of, much to the man's displeasure and Victor's amusement. He doubts that Stark would be similarly inclined to humor him.

Experimentally, he reaches to remove the camera. He might as well test his boundaries before he can cross them at a later point in time.

"Mr. Odinson," a voice suddenly says. "I would like to suggest that you do not damage the surveillance equipment in any way. Mr. Stark has shown much aversion to anyone interfering with his systems, physical parts included."

Loki quickly looks around in surprise. Upon seeing nobody, he takes a step back from the camera and looks straight into its lens. He should have known it was far too easy to find the cameras - they were placed in clear view, and painted white against the pale beige wallpaper. Stark wants him to know that he was being watched, he realizes. 

"You," he addresses the camera. He remembers the name of Stark's henchman far too clearly than he would like to. "You are Jarvis, correct?"

"Indeed I am," Jarvis replies smoothly. "I am Mr. Stark's Artificial Intelligence System. A pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Odinson."

"Loki," Loki says absently. "I do not wish to be called Odinson. Call me Loki." He had previously thought Jarvis a trusted Stark Industries, his only function being Stark's equivalent of a security system - the prospect of an AI system, however, may be worse. Humans can make mistakes. AI systems are much less likely to do so.

"Very well, Mr. Loki." Jarvis acquiesces, and Loki is reminded of numbers and codes governed by rules, and how rules can be bent to his whims. "You are welcome to call on me for assistance at all times, as per Mr. Stark's instruction. However, if you happen to pass any boundaries previously specified by Mr. Stark, it has been instructed that I have been allowed to, put succinctly, misbehave."

There is an almost dark undertone to the word itself, and both god and machine know exactly what will ensue should Loki step clearly over the line. The memory of cold steel against his face, an unrelenting pressure forcing him against the floor and rendering him unable to breathe comes unbidden to his mind. He smiles, slow and overly sweet, at the camera. 

"Noted, thank you." He approaches the bathroom gingerly, almost wary. "Will I be given privacy in the bathroom," he asks.

"To a certain extent," the AI confirms. No visual, Loki guesses, and probably a heat sensor of some degree. His time on Midgard had been used well for assimilating himself within its culture, although pop culture references continue to elude him. If Victor was here, he would have known how to trick all of Stark's technology traps.

Victor is not here. Loki will have to make do with plans kept safe within his mind, and trial and (little) error.

"Jarvis," he calls. "Is Thor within the building?"

"Yes, sir."

"Am I within boundaries to visit his floor?"

"A moment, please." He nods, not entirely sure that the system registers his gesture. "Permission has been given. Shall I alert Mr. Odinson of your plans?"

Loki thinks briefly, decides swiftly. "Yes, please," he says. "I think this reunion is long overdue."

"Very well, sir," Jarvis says, and the elevator door slides open. "Right this way. Mr. Odinson is on the top floor, out on the verandah. Mr. Stark cautions you to not push him over the the glass barriers."

"Thank you for the advice," Loki says politely as he steps into the elevator. 

"You're welcome, sir," Jarvis replies as the doors slide shut and the elevator brings him up, up, up and away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhhh this did not take forever. The next chapter took forever. The following chapter might take forever too.
> 
> Usual thanks to Kytt, Dory and Gabs. <3

[ _New York, a year ago._ ]

"Seventy years," Steve says.

"Yes." Nick Fury sits across him, steepling his fingers. "America has changed, Mr. Rogers, during your absence. People are not what they used to be, nowadays."

He frowns at that. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that there has been a general decrease of what you call morally right behavior." Fury leans over to the table and takes a sip out of his glass tumbler. "The general amount of crime has risen exponentially in the past decade. This is not the America you know. You would do well to be careful."

"And you're not doing anything?" Steve demands. "You're just telling me this?"

"I am doing something," Fury says, sharp. "But I need you to understand the circumstances that we are in."

"What is there to understand?" Steve says, bringing himself back under a more rigid sense of control. "Help people. That's what everyone should do. We should all protect one another."

Fury gazes at him, face impassive. "Go out there, Captain," he finally says. "Help your fellow citizens and see for yourself."

"Gladly, sir," Steve says stiffly and walks out of the room.

* * *

Manhattan today is undeniably different from how Steve remembers it - where there had been people walking with their heads held up high, bursting with the confidence of being alive, people walking with their heads tucked down into their coats, nary a smile on their face or a light in their eyes, walking briskly but brusquely are to be found instead. The sky is still blue, the buildings are standing tall (and taller, Steve notes, as an frankly ugly building looms in the near horizon, with the word 'STARK' emblazoned across the very top) but its people are a muted colour.

Steve wonders if Fury had not told him, would he even notice?

He walks along and looks, instead choosing to immerse himself in memories of Bucky and Peggy, as painful it may be. Would Bucky approach that girl with a toothy smile, exuding charm? Would Peggy be affronted at today's America, the America of downtrodden lives and dreams?

He doesn't remember for long, because three streets down he walks into an alley where a man holds a pistol to a boy's head.

"Put the gun down," he calls out. The man turns to look at him, pressing the barrel of the pistol into the boy's head. His attire is a dark navy blue... A police officer, Steve realises. Was he interrupting something?

"Get out of here, lad," the man snarls. "This nigger here owes me my ten bucks."

"I din't take nothing!" The boy cries out. "I din't take nothing, promise!"

"Shut up," the officer bellows and whips the boy across the face with the pistol.

Steve sees red.

The officer finds his face pressed against the floor the next moment as Steve bears all of his weight onto the man. The pistol flies out of his hand and into the wall. "Now look here," he grits out. "You're an officer, aren't you supposed to help people?"

The man spits out a tooth. "Where have you been living, Antarctica?" he sneers.

"No," the boy suddenly says, and they both look up to see him aiming the pistol at the officer's head. His eyes are cold and hard as he releases the safety. "But you, you be living in hell now."

He shoots and the man beneath him slumps. Steve stares up at him, confusion marring his features, as the boy reloads his gun and aims again, this time for the centre of Steve's forehead. "Sorry, man," he says. "But you saw. So you die."

(Can he recover from a bullet to the head, he wonders.)

Someone shoots.

* * *

"You didn't have to kill him!" Steve yells. His hands shook despite his best efforts to control them as the man he will come to know as Phil Coulson returns his gun to his holster. "He was just a boy, for goodness' sake." The puddle of blood forming beneath his feet grows, the slightest movement causing his shoes to let out a sick squelching sound.

"On the contrary, Captain," Fury calls out as he strides down the alley. His black coat billows out as he walks. "He had to be killed."

Steve turns to him. "And who are you to decide that?"

"While we had our eye on the officer for some time now," Fury says calmly, "that boy has been involved in several murders, including his own parents'. He would have died anyway, through our own faulty law or a gang fight."

"Still," Steve protests, his fists clenching uselessly by his side.

"He would have shot you," Coulson interjects. "And you would have died, Mr. Rogers, serum or otherwise."

"This is America today, Captain," Fury says. His eye stares at Steve's own levelly. "Where anyone and everyone is both prey and predator. Law is a mockery, love is a joke. There's nothing out there but yourself to fight for."

"So who are you," Steve asks, once more.

"Nick Fury, director of SHIELD." Fury does not blink. "The largest assassination organisation in the world. We're recruiting you."

"Why should I join you?" Steve counters.

"Because if you take out the right people, the corrupt people," and here Fury's lips quirk up into a wry smile. "Then maybe America can move into the right direction again."

Steve considers.

( _I'm in._ )

* * *

[ _New York, today_ ]

The moment the elevator doors slide open Loki is hit with nostalgia like a punch to his gut. Thor's floor is decorated with gold and marble, almost reminiscent of Asgard itself; and if Loki imagines he can see, just in the distance, the Allfather and Frigga at the throne.

Perhaps Stark has planned for this. He moves gingerly out of the elevator, every shimmer of gold leaving a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

"Mr. Odinson," Jarvis calls out. Loki narrows his eyes in confusion. "Loki has arrived."

"Brother!" Thor's voice calls out joyously, and Thor himself appears soon after. He is clad in a tunic that looks eerily similar to the ones he left in Asgard, save for some minute inaccuracies that he would overlook. "I had only heard of the good news a few minutes ago. Come, let me look at you." He strides over to Loki, his hand landing on his shoulder and squeezing heavily. "You are as thin as a bird! Does Osborn starve both his friends and his foes?"

"On the other hand, Midgardian food is just not as nourishing as our own," Loki finally replies. "Thor. Aren't you wary of me? I could attack you."

At that, Thor laughs. "You are my brother, Loki, and I know you well. You have nothing to gain from attacking me now; besides, you are here of your own free will." He tugs Loki along into what seems to be a kitchen, staffed by some humans that immediately look down upon Thor's entrance. "You had me worried, brother, but I am glad you finally understand my actions. I should have let Tony talk to you from the very beginning."

What, Loki thinks, but holds his tongue. Thor keeps on talking. "I had not realised that you were negotiating with Tony - had I known, I would have joined in the affairs." He brusquely knocks a woman aside as he reaches for the cupboard overhead, whom Loki quickly catches before she falls. She looks up at him in alarm, before scurrying from the room.

Thor turns to him and offers him what Namor has shown him once - a Pop Tart - seemingly unaware of what had just happened. Loki takes it with a murmur of thanks. "So, Loki," Thor says. "How is Father?"

"How is Father?" Loki repeats. Thor nods at him, encouraging him - but all Loki sees is Odin looking down at him, ordering him to tell no one of his... curse and to bring Thor home, a worthy Thor home.

(A Jotun cannot sit on the throne of Asgard.)

He has not returned, since.

Thor repeats his name and Loki jerks back to the present. Thor looks expectant, almost wistful and Loki is reminded that Thor does not choose to stay.

"Father is," he says haltingly. "Father is hale and healthy. Mother misses you dearly, and thinks of you everyday. Sif and the Warriors Three train everyday, waiting to go on quests upon your return." The lies come easily, and Loki imagines some for his own - Sleipnir in his stable, grazing away. Hela within Helheim, awaiting his visits but not grudging him...

(... Fenrir within chains.)

Thor's expression mirrors Loki's own - nostalgia in its saddest form. He looks down at his Pop Tart and Loki looks away, giving him his privacy.

"Thor," Loki says, after some time (or more accurately, when Thor has demolished plenty of his stock of Pop Tarts). "Have you ever thought of going back?"

Thor frowns at him. "Surely you jest, brother," he says slowly, as if they were children of a millennium younger, the elder teaching the younger how the world truly works. "I am exiled. Father will not take me back, Mother cannot persuade him otherwise. Heimdall will not open the Brifost to me. I cannot return."

"I know," Loki says, just a tad impatient. "But the Allfather does everything for a reason (bitter taste in mouth, Frigga telling him, sorrow in her eyes), you cannot be exiled forever. You are heir to the throne, Thor, not a babe playing in the sandbox of mortals. You have to come home."

"Why are you not heir then, Loki?" Thor asks, lashing out in his confusion. "You are also in line to the throne. Father has no need for me with you." He stands up abruptly, towering over Loki and Loki stands up to face the fallen god head-on. "Tell me, Loki - had you not wished to be king? We were born kings, raised kings - "

"But I will not be king." Loki says, no, snaps tersely at his brother, his tight control over his emotions cracking. "I will not be king because you are the favoured son, Thor Odinson," _because I am the second son, the unneeded son, Loki, son of Laufey, never an Odinson and because how dare Thor mock him by challenging him to take something that can never be his?_ Thor stares at him with shock and even more confusion at his words, and Loki takes a deep breath.

"Excuse me," he says, clipped, and ignores his brother as he turns and teleports away.

* * *

There's only so much that Loki can take.

He slips out of the tower and into the crowd of late-night Manhattan, navigating between the turf wars and hidden alleys. The spell of overlooked sights shimmers in a cloak around him, causing the mortals' eyes to simply slide over him, unnoticing, unheeding. He walks with purpose, safe in the knowledge that no one will stop him.

The park where he had first arrived on Midgard has not changed from that day, where Osborn had initially viewed him as a threat and much later an ally. The imprint of the Bifrost is also still present, pressed into the ground, its intricate design sprawling across the circle enclosing it within. Several pieces of vandalism are also there, a new addition to the ancient designs (your helmet is gay, aliens aren't real dumbfag, _mortals_ ), pieces that he cleans off with a flourish of his hand.

He steps into the centre of the circle and looks up. "Heimdall," he says softly. "Open the Bifrost."

He waits for the sky to split open. He waits for the bright flash of light, for the rainbow bridge of Asgard to appear. He waits.

He waits for too long.

"Heimdall," he calls out again, louder. The Gatekeeper of Asgard sees all, hears all, and is ever-vigilant. It is impossible that he overlooks Loki. "Open the Bifrost."

A trace of panic and fear curls within his gut, and Loki tries to remember how to breathe.

"Heimdall!" he screams into the night. The mortals pass him by, the more perceptive ones staring briefly before the spell takes hold of them and they look away. "I know you see me, I know you hear me!" _Don't ignore me._ "Open the Bifrost!"

He shoots up a green spark, a red spark, and screams again for Heimdall. The sky remains a murky black.

( _Odin_ , he finally says, his voice a hoarse whisper. The sun has yet to rise, painting the world a pale shade of blue. _Allfather. Please, let me come home._ )

The sky remains placid, and Loki falls to the ground, searching for warmth where there is none.


	8. Chapter 8

 "What the fuck is he doing here," Clint spits the words out like he has chewed something bitter and hard.

Stark lounges on the sofa, his expression of mock surprise. "And I thought you liked me, Barton," he says carelessly. "Or are you only putting up with me because of Romanov?"

"I liked you up to the moment you invited a certain homicidal Norse God to stay in the same fucking tower you live in," Clint snarls back. "He killed Phil when he wasn't armed, Stark, you want him to murder all of us in our sleep too?"

"He killed Phil because he needed to get to Thor - "

"And now he's making up reasons for him too! What better way to run a criminal ring," Clint sneers, "than to invite the bastard to breathe down our necks?"

"He won't," Stark says calmly.

"Did he give you his word," Clint mocks. "Did you forget something? God of Lies? He may be on the good side, but he's also a fucking good liar."

(No one wants to remind Clint of the time Loki shifted into Natasha and managed to trick the archer into being… affectionate. It's a combination of this and Phil's death that makes the man hate the Norse God with a burning passion.)

"As much as I acknowledge your intelligence, Katniss, you're not the one making plans," Stark says. "Or at least, I'm not paying you to make them."

"Well I'm telling you that this one is an idiotic," Clint starts to say, but Natasha cuts him off.

"So pay us ore," she says coolly, and all eyes turn to her on the armchair. Clint looks affronted. Stark looks amused and expectant. "Pay us more, and we'll keep our mouths shut." 

"I always liked you, Romanov," Stark says, grinning. "How much?"

"I'll settle on the price with Hawkeye and tell you later," she says. "But if he wants to kill someone first, it better be you and not us."

"Settled," Stark picks himself up and sweeps out of the room. "Call me when you know what you want."

(The answer to that has always been simple - money. If favours can't burn off the red in her ledger, then the digits in a bank account definitely could.)

There are some bonds she won't break for money, but those are few and rare. She would betray Stark in a heartbeat, but as circumstances are, Stark has enough money and more for her to take and take and take.)

"Nat," Clint starts to say.

"I don't like it any more than you do," Natasha interrupts. "But if Stark wants to go the same way Osborn's Cabal went, then let him. Whichever way this turns out, we're still coming out on top."

"You saw how he killed Phil," Clint says, grasping for reasons that Natasha completely agrees with, every single one of them. Loki in the Tower compromises all of them. Only money makes her stay.

(But perhaps that too is a lie - there is somewhat of a burgeoning affection of sorts for Steve, for Thor, for Bruce and for Stark. Still, Natasha is adept at lying to herself, and nothing changes.)

"I saw," she says. "But we can just stay out of conflict. Loki should know to avoid you too - so there's no need to pick fights."

Clint draws closer, helpless, and if someone else saw it would be compared to a moth drawn to a flame for what Clint is about to say next. "I'm just worried for you."

That shuts her off from Clint quickly enough - Clint Barton, well-meaning Clint who is so hopelessly in love with her -

But she doesn't love him back, the way he wants her to.

"I don't need you to worry for me," she tells him coldly. "I can do that for myself." She watches as the affection in his eyes is crushed underneath the heel of her refusal - and perhaps she'd feel bad, if she hadn't learnt to compress and ignore.

"Right," Clint says, after he remembers how to speak again. "I'm, I'm sorry."

"I'm going to negotiate with Stark," she informs him, and leaves him alone.

(She feels nothing, because she simply doesn't - but for him it hurts every single time. If the pain does not dissuade him, nothing will.)

(Natasha - no, Natalia knows nothing of love.)

* * *

He meets someone in the kitchen.

It's a surprise, and even more so when he doesn't recognise the man. The man probably recognises him though, looking at the way he is trying not to fidget. They stare at each other, locked in an impasse.

"Hello," Loki finally says.

"Hey there," the man says back just as warily.

"I don't suppose you know where I can store my food," Loki tries. Casual is always a good start to approach strangers, he finds. If not, he could always disappear in a puff of smoke. That also always got him some nice expressions of shock.

(He doesn't really have food to keep, but who here would care if he eats it or not?)

"Oh. I think you can use those cupboards over there," and the man gestures towards his right. Loki nods in thanks, and walks over to an empty cupboard where he summons several snacks he has grown fond of on Midgard to put inside. He takes his time, pretending to not notice the eyes on his back.

"I don't believe I got your name?" Loki says casually to the tin of Toblerones in his hand.

"Bruce Banner," he introduces himself, as Loki turns around. He seems less wary, for some reason. "You're Loki."

_I know my name, thank you very much._  "You're the Bruce with an acid trap on his floor," he says instead.

Bruce's expression turns to bemusement. "Did Tony tell you that?" he says. "I don't actually, but I do have chemicals in there that are rather explosive. I'd rather people not mess around with them."

"I see," Loki says politely. "Could I ask what you're using them for?"

"Research," Bruce says vaguely, his eyes flicking to Loki's side. "I mainly study, uh, physics. And radiology. Gamma radiation, to be exact."

It was not very exact, but Loki is not here to be suspicious of everyone in the Tower. "That's an interesting field of study."

"No more interesting than astronomy would be to the average person," the other man replies, slightly self-deprecating.

"To the right people it might just be," Loki returns, and with the tentative smile returned, perhaps he has gained himself a new friend.

* * *

“Brother.”

Loki breathes out. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, that Thor would approach him after his outburst. He had been running on emotion at the time, and had chastised himself afterwards.

(After he had finally accepted that this was Odin’s way of saying, you’re not coming home until Thor does.)

“Yes?” He finally says, keeping wariness out of his voice. He has yet to come up with a new plan - now that he is as good as exiled like his brother, what would he do?

Attempt to convince Thor to return home, as he has done before, for there is nothing else to be done.

Or. Or live up to his name as the God of Mischief. Bring mayhem upon this world, and Ragnarok upon the rest. Harbringer, destroyer, the monikers and the future that the Nords of this world’s past had predicted he will bring.

That way lies madness. He knows better. Everyone expects him to do what the Norns themselves see, spinning their thread at the roots of Yggdrasil.

He will not succumb to their expectations.

“Brother,” Thor says again, taking a seat across from Loki. Loki smiles.

“Repetition does not become you, Thor,” he says, a weak attempt at diverting the topic at hand, whatever it is.

“It does not,” his not-brother agrees, a shocking occurrence. He sits, and Loki looks up to find a stranger in Thor’s body.

But the expressions he wears are clearly Thor’s.This is no imposter. Loki wishes it was.

“You said that you will not be king,” the golden haired god says bluntly.

“I will not,” Loki confirms. He holds Thor’s gaze, lets him sees the truth in his eyes should he happen to choose to believe in Loki’s nature as others dictate him to be.

“Loki,” he breathes. “What makes you believe so?”

The laugh that forces itself out from his throat is harsh and bitter. “What makes me not believe it? Odin has always favoured you, Thor. As ignorant to others as you can be, you will have to be as blind as Hodr to not see his love for you.”

“Ignorant,” Thor says. “You say the most displeasing things.”

“The most displeasing things are the truth.”

“Not all truths are true.”

“Careful there, Thor. Your mighty mind may be unable to explain the contradictory statement you have made.”

Thor’s countenance twists into something displeased. Loki waits for him to rise to violence.

He does not.

“You are swifter in mind, and cunning,” Thor lists off. “You are skilled in diplomacy. I have also heard of your prowess in bed,” he adds, almost as an afterthought.

“That a convincing case does not build,” Loki murmurs.

“I am exiled, and you are the next in line,” the god tries once more.

“Yet I am here on Midgard, sitting across you without Asgard’s crown on my head,” the other god returns immediately. Thor looks suitably confused. “Do you not see why I am here, Thor? Odin wants you back. The path you are proceeding down is not the iridescent bridge to our golden home - no, at this rate Niflheim lies at the end of your destructive path.”

“You lie,” Thor accuses so easily. Yet that is Loki's title, and Loki smiles, mirthless. 

“I do not.”

“The only destruction that will be wrought will be upon those who deserve it.”

“And who are you to decide who deserves your wrath?”

“I am a god,” Thor says, forceful. “And you are one too, Loki. Why do you fight for the mortals of this world if you are here for me?”

Loki regards Thor silently, for a moment. “Because they are defenseless,” he answers quietly. “And I cannot persuade you from your chosen path. Obstinance is a strong trait of yours, brother mine.”

Thor stands and Loki stands with him. “Tony did not talk to you,” he says, realisation in his tone.

“He did, but not in the way you envisioned,” Loki says. He smiles wryly. “Go back to your floor, Thor, that gilded room, the mockery of a place you call home. As long as I am staying here, I will not obstruct you and your friends from wreaking havoc upon the city.”

“Are you dismissing me,” the god demands, and Loki laughs again, sharp.

“Yes,” he admits, “because look at us, two fallen gods. You have no authority over me, nor I over you. Think on my words, Thor, if you can think - whether this path will lead you back into Odin’s favour, or ever further away.”

Thor turns and storms away, and with overwhelming calm and just that little bit of spite and triumph, Loki watches him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is a three year late update, and prolly the last chapter to ever be posted for this fic. thank you for sticking through with me so far, but well. i moved fandoms.
> 
> if anyone wants to run with the concept, please go right ahead.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank the following people:
> 
> Kytt, for reading the very first and subsequent drafts of this... thing; for her continued demands for me to continue it /or else/ and being an epically awesome sounding board. 
> 
> Gabs, otherwise known as scifi1694, for being my Marvel canon checker and generally an enthusiastic Doom fan.
> 
> Dory, otherwise known as amaririsu, for reading through this and being my other Marvel canon checker, even though her OTP is Steve/Tony.
> 
> Last but not least, to all of you who made it this far. Thank you for being my audience.


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